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It meant you had permission to be yourself—something I didn’t feel anywhere else. Permission to sit on the floor of the coat closet in the dark and feel safe—watching the light come through the colored glass.
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This time I do know that I’ll never wear that long corduroy skirt again. I could pretend it’s out of style but the fact is that the waist is too tight. Ouch, I said it. Into the box it goes.
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“We all have baggage by this age,” I say. She and I are no longer young but not yet ready to be old. We sip our glasses of wine and reflect on our own baggage, that load of hang-ups and heartaches we carry around.
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I am reminded how our things outlast us, which I find reassuring and unsettling at once.
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What I most want for Christmas is for someone to say, “Tell me about your mom.” It might be the gift everyone was waiting for, that invitation: Just tell me.”
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The world is such a big place when you’re a child with so many mysteries and threats and dangers. So many misunderstandings.
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Before my mother taught me to iron, she taught me to sprinkle. Next, I learned about the iron itself which—like many adult appliances—was dangerous.
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Jock took a group of us pony-trekking and as we rode up into the rugged mountains—the mist lifting and the sheep calling—I knew I belonged to this lovely, melancholy landscape.
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