But you don’t because you are the parent.

Sorry for the spoiler.

They blog passionately, frequently and intensely. Sometimes the posts lead down a path of discovery and sometimes they seem to wander aimlessly.

But eventually the blogging stops.

And my heart aches. I know that they have found what they are looking for and I will probably never hear their voice again. I’m happy for my friends, but also painfully sad at being left behind. I fight that because it is a selfish feeling. I can tolerate almost any other insult except being accused of being selfish.

I am very happy for you, but I miss your voice. I will miss the future you and treasure the voice you have left in my head.

But that is not really true.

I have nothing to say that I want to say in public.

But I have a lot I want to say.

Just not here.

That ok?

Great writers write about what others fear but don’t say.

Exceptional writers write about what scares the hell out of them.

I think.

Which is probably why it is really hard to become an exceptional writer.

“Because it has my personal information, my doctor’s name and more importantly, the drug the bottle contained.”

“So what,” my inner voice lamented. “Nobody cares and nobody is going to go through your trash.”

And then it came to me as clear as crystal. I care intensely about my privacy because I know with absolute certainty that out of the 6.7 Billion people alive on the planet that I am unique. I am important. I matter.

Me.

Being forced to give up that privacy forces me to admit that I am just one out of many interchangeable human beings. That is something I am not going to just willingly throw in the garbage.

You?

One evening, all the priests were together at dinner — which rarely happens — and I caught my reflection in the polished surface of the toaster that was sitting at the far end of the table. It didn’t look anything like how I was feeling inside.

“Why do you always look so mad,” she says to me often.

“I’m not mad. This is my neutral face.”

“You always look so angry and that makes me mad.”

I’m often giddy and awestruck by simple things. I’m amused and happy when I discover new stuff. I’m anxious and scared about others around me.

And I often write long prose in my head.

But I am rarely angry. I wish my face would say that.

I’m thinking I have been wrong.

I think most people just want to exist in the world. It is quite possible I have arrived at the wrong conclusion because I seek to surround myself with people who choose to make a difference and anguish over the fact it doesn’t cut deep or fast enough.

Not everyone is Moses, a friend of mine reminded me this morning.

This changes everything.

I don’t do book reviews, so this is not. It is a record of an odd attraction for me to read the book, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake by Aimee Bender.

The book caught my eye on a shelf at a local store about a month ago. I tried to ignore it, but the lemon cake photo and the teal-colored cover kept nagging at me to pick it up. It thought it might be one of those chick self-help, feminine exploration books.

It wasn’t. Not really. Maybe a little. Maybe one could read it that way.

It was weird. The lemon cake, the play Brigadoon, the father denying his special skills in favor of living a “normal life” free from any attention and the desire of one of the main character to disappear into his environment unnoticed.

Too many things too close to the soul.

I’m not really sure I believe in fate or destiny or any of that metaphysical crap that says I was meant to read this book, but sure seems a bit creepy nonetheless.

And then the day job came to an abrupt end. And now, he won’t shut up.

“He blogs like he is unemployed and got a great separation package,” I remarked.

We both laughed at the instant recognition that brought.