9:17 a.m. - March 09, 2005
A week or so ago my brother called, left a message, wanted to know the exact title of my book. Apparently a customer inquired whether he and I were related (there's only 7 of us in the USA with the same last name), because she had just ordered a book - my book - whose author had the same, unique, last name. He didn't, doesn't?, know the title of my book and called to find out, not wanting to ask the woman herself. It hurt somewhere inside, it really did, but it hurt more knowing this dynamic of being brother-strangers is my doing but I can't point to a reason or an event or a because: It's just the way I am. And just when - just? - desperation yields to rational thought to balance the scales of pro and con, I'm reminded of how little there is of me out there, how much I've tried and only make things worse.
All the good things, the field where I built my forts by tearing boards off fences, following the creek bordered by the purple wildflowers, the sound of the wind at my secret spot, my grandmother's orange scones and cream, the scent of my secret-recipe chocolate chip cookies: I was here and here and here and here, I was here. I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here. I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here, I was here.