By INGRID TISCHER: For More Info, Go Here…
I remember this:
I am eight. I am waiting alone for the little bus inside the doors of my school, White Sulphur Springs Elementary, in the Catskills. I glimpse a small girl not far away – tired, leaning against the wall like it was holding her up. Seeing her, I feel a sorrow for her.
The sorrow is bigger than me, it blooms out of my stomach and swallows me whole like a monstrous flower.
In the next instant, I see that I’m looking at myself in the reflection of a display cabinet’s glass doors. I am angry at myself – first, for letting myself look like that – then, for looking like that.
Then I know that I will never be faster than seeing is. It can get even me. This means that while I’ll empathize with strangers who feel sorry for me in decades to come – having done it myself – I’ll want them to snap out of it, too – as I did.