I stand here, at the kitchen counter, listening to you read stories, other people’s, telling about their lives, growing up – they’re stories of fear, of silence.
I’m sorting blades, and pen tips – hundreds of sharp edges, a mistake will make me bleed. I never do.
I know you’re reading stories of other people, but they’re your story, too. All of the stories are about you.
I think about the box of blades and pens, I look at what to me are innocent tools, and I know that they can represent to much more. Precision tools, precise symbols of things that can’t be said aloud.
Now you tell of your own story, and of wanting to be done telling it, for the story to have an end. The end isn’t written yet – is anyone’s? – and you go on, even if you are just searching for how to close the chapter, wondering if there’s another one after.