Pathwalker
here were eight of us, when I was a child; one less than the number of Queen Victoria's brood. It was a household of individuality and stringent Catholicism. I took my part. If I didn't always believe, at least I tried.
I see them as often as possible; Holy Marie, the folksinger in a tiny Texas town, mother of six at forty. Tart Wendy, who realized years of potential into weekend duty as a weathergirl. Innocent Cindy, whose dreams of motherhood collapsed after her first child was born still and dead. Sarcastic Sherry, New York's most bitter stand-up comedian. Jr, the football coach, walking in dad's shoes, halfway to the heart attack that killed him. Young Harvey, the family pariah, out of the closet for six months now. Baby Melissa, the NY honor student, mom's last chance to get a child in a nunnery, studying Paranormal Activities. We are walking disappointments. Especially to our sacrificial lamb of a mother.
And I, who lights her fires on Sunday, playing keep-away.