I shed these boots with my pretenses. Kick them into the corner behind the bedroom door. Peel back all my layers. I stand here, exposed, laid bare, in my stocking feet and wait for you to say, “I thought you were taller.”


I can picture it. The orderly, bringing in the mail. The postcard with pictures of us, the happy couple, dated two weeks ago and signed, "With all my love -- Renie." The orderly asks, “Who got married?” My mother replies, “I don’t know.”