What if I Can't?

A few weeks ago, I was admonished to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with the business of living like everyone else.

If only words could cure me.

It seemed like reasonable advice. It seemed that, perhaps in context, I could actually be like everyone else.

But here is what he forgot to consider:

My hyacinth is dead after less than two weeks of living with me. I tried so hard to give it the right amounts of water and sun. First the individual stalks fell, and I tried to turn the plant so it would grow up straight again. I would stick my nose into the delicate petals and absorb the scent like honey suckle. The plant made me so happy. I wanted more of them. But the stalks wouldn’t be righted and the purple flowers turned brown and fell, and now the plant is dead and my apartment feels staler than before.

The kitten I picked that belongs to him bit my lip. We were playing together, and I kept giving him kisses, which he seemed not to mind. Then, all I did was pucker up, inches away, and he pounced from my belly and bit my lip with all his eight-week-old strength. I was shocked. My lip throbbed. I touched it and it felt wet. I asked him if I was bleeding and he said it was red. I waited a minute then touched the sore again, pulling away an index finger with jagged red trails. I examined the puncture in his bathroom. I remembered everyone I ever meant to kiss who bit my face. I refused to cry over this in his house. I refused to admit an orange kitten could hurt me.