My face

I first became aware of my face when I was fourteen. I had a job in a rectory sorting and recording the collection plate donations and doing light cleaning. Most of the time was spent watching TV, however.

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.