I’m making my rounds at the local thrift stores.  I get into my car and drive, in search of that one thing.  I don’t know what it is, but the magnetic lure of finding it pulls me towards each store, with their pealing tinted windows and musty aisles.  I open the door and scan each building, constructing my plan.  I grab a cart and head to the book section, digging for titles to add to my bookshelves.  Always searching, always digging, always so terribly terribly alone.  I walk up and down the aisles, my eye trained to find treasures for my home.  An old coffee carafe, a brass lipstick holder, a porcelain ashtray that someone picked up during their travels to someplace I am not.  Up one aisle, down another, tossing things in my cart, unable to pass up a deal on any vintage item.  It had a history, a past, and someone loved it at some point, yet here it sits, in a thrift store, next stop, trash can.  Unless I rescue it.

I take my wares to the counter and pay.  I make eye contact with the cashier but she doesn’t save me.  She never reaches out or asks me why I’m so sad.

“Please.  Please pray for me,” I silently beg.  ”I’m dying…”

“Have a good day,” she tells me.

“You, too,” I say, holding back tears.

I take my bags out to my car and sit in the front seat, air conditioning blowing, treasures discarded in the back seat.  I take deep breaths.  I beg the sadness to leave, but it weighs my body down.  My limbs are lead, my eyes droop, too weak to hold themselves up.  I had hoped to be rescued, but now I’m back in my car, again.  Headed home.

When I get home, I put my bag with all of the other unopened bags.  My dining room corner is a graveyard for memories… other people’s memories.  I turn on the tv.  I flip through channels.  I move some books around on my book shelf.  I look in the kitchen for something to eat.  I go to the bathroom.  I stare in the mirror and don’t recognize the person looking back at me.  She never smiles.  I used to.

I go into my closet and look through my dresses until I find my favorite vintage summer frock.  I put it on, pull my hair back into a french knot.  I place my sandals on my feet, touch up my toenail polish.  I swipe the blood-red lipstick across my lips and add a line of black across the top of each lash.  I darken the mole above my left eye.  I stand in front of my closet mirror and the person looking back at me has a charmed life.  She is beautiful.  She is perfect.  Nothing bad ever happened in her world.  I am now ready to go.

I leave the house and head to the coffee shop in The Circle.  I stand in line at the counter, surrounded by people who all know each other, engaged in rapid conversations, roaring with high pitched laughter.  I am in a vacuum, surrounded by noise, my head soaked in total silence.

Inside I scream, “Please!  Help me!  I’m drowning.  Don’t you see how badly I’m hurting?  Can’t you please, please help me?”

No one responds.

It’s my turn at the counter.  I order my usual, the girl compliments my broach.  For a moment, my heart smiles.  She knows who I am.  She remembers my order.  She likes my broach.  I must be alive.  People must see me.

I take my coffee and sit by the window at my favorite table.  I look out at the patio, at the cars circling the fountain.  I pray that someone will ask to join me.  That I will catch someone’s eye.  But no one comes.  I pull out my journal, and my favorite pen, and I begin to write.

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