Pieces of Glass

But the curvaceous shape, well, that’s from my grandmother. I’m not just anyone.

Not tall, not short, dark hair, olive skin — I could be anyone; my ethnicity could be partly anything.

I even call in when I’m especially lonely.

Twenty-two years old and acting like an old maid, I make up names for my neighbors. I listen to talk radio when I need to hear a human voice.

With proper food supplies and a cordless headset permanently attached to my ear, I can go for days without seeing another human being — unless you count “the belly.”

Working in a “virtual office” is, I imagine, somewhat comparable to being under house arrest.

Being in the presence of deep pain is frightening. It’s too messy; there are too many unanswered questions. “What do I say?” people ask, as if pain needs to be bandaged and plugged instead of released

To write is to love and to start to live again.