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From
COULDN’T SAY
Literary Prize
1. (Liz talks to her husband about the start of her downward spiral.)
You know, I never got used to the impression you make as a teacher. My kids would come up to me. Years later. Say I was the most important thing in their life that year. And my god, all I did was show up! Can you imagine someone tapping you on the shoulder? While you’re standing in line with — with groceries? Reminding you of where you were and what it meant to be you?
When I stopped teaching I thought, “I’ll just take a break. There’s so much to do around the house.” Then, you know, I brought the recycling to the curb. Saw Norm lumber by. I hadn’t seen him in months. I waved. Said hello. I’d been meaning to call him ... I — I looked up and Norm was already down the street. He hadn’t heard me at all. I was standing there, mumbling to the curb, thinking we were having this conversation. I was so ashamed! I never used to mumble. I used to say things. People used to listen. Didn’t they? I ran to the house. Locked the door. I can’t take out the recycling again. Norm might walk by. I’ll just take a break. There’s so much to do around the house. And then I realized, I’d said the same thing the day I stopped teaching, and — and so many other things. And my world was getting so very small. I sat on the floor, a dish towel over my head. Screamed. Laughed. Banged the cabinets. But the panic didn’t – didn’t go away. |
2. (Liz insists that their son appeared to her after he died. This is her husband's response.)
I need to believe you? That’s — That’s asking a lot, Liz. I never went to church before he died. Or meditated. Or believed in souls, or the afterlife, or half the things I see in front of me. I doubt things for a living. And I’ve learned, as long as you have doubts about a thing, or the people you know, you’d be a fool to believe in them.
Look. I used to try. Kept a picture of Mom on my dresser, growing up. Talked to her, looking for my sneakers in the morning. Before going to bed at night. But I never heard her or felt her presence. Where was she? Fluttering around in heaven? Hovering an inch away? Maybe she didn’t exist at all, because there’s no such thing as a soul. What do I know? I was nine years-old. All I know is, it didn’t matter if I put her picture on the dresser. Or in the dresser. Or talked. Or whispered. Or shouted. Or prayed. Or ignored her. Or cried and beat my fists against the wall. I didn’t feel her presence. Ever. Anywhere. All I remember is lying in bed at night. Staring into the corner. Trying not to break.
Excerpts published in Audition Arsenal: Monologues for Women In Their 30s and Audition Arsenal: Monologues for Men In Their 30s, by Smith and Kraus.
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