small eleven year old boy handprint, I felt a jiggle. And it wasn’t coming from my hips or belly, which are normally the jiggle centers in my body. It was coming from my heart. I walked past that handprint, a sign of life frozen in time,that will serve as a testimony to all who visit here that this boy existed. Look here is his handprint. He was alive. He left his mark. I looked more carefully at my friend’s memorials, their middle names, their maiden names. They existed, they were alive. They must have left some kind of mark. What two words would encompass my complicated life? Angry Mother? Divorced Woman? Joy Seeker? What is my mark? Maybe, for now, I’ll keep the freezer full of chocolate ice cream just keep walking until I figure it all out. And if I die prematurely, don’t let my children write the tombstone. They’d write something like Scissor Wielder and that’s only the beginning of my story. I think the end gets better.
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