There was already one perfect boy, and one perfect girl, when I was born with a crossed eye. Branded as lazy by surgeons and specialists, I focused on ways to prove myself industrious, productive, hard working; but my sister had vacuumed before I woke up, and my brother had read all the books.
Still, being the youngest with an eye patch was hard to look away from, and I did okay until another perfect boy and another perfect girl came along with adorable, unstoppable energy. From there and forever more, my eye and I wandered aimlessly through the middle of the perfect family.
This is the story I told myself, and this is the story that stuck. And now if I’m not diligent, this is the story that shows up at book clubs and parties, bound between two immovable forces: My fierce need to elbow my way to the center of things, or my jealous heart, which stands by the carrot table muttering “marsha, marsha, marsha!”
And here I am at 56; I write every morning then run to the world’s refrigerator to post myself. It may be that it’s a safe way to ask to be seen without making eye contact. It may be that I’m hoarding tiny blue thumbs to make up for my one green eye. But it’s also a way to rewrite the story; to see things more clearly; beginning with a one-of-a-kind little girl, who was born squinting into the sun.
Starting Close 