I don’t like endings. I prefer to be alone when I cry, but everyone I am close with has sat near me while I wept. People divulge their secrets to me before I know their last name. I can make someone genuinely laugh while telling the story of how my sister died. As a child, I ate the whole apple, core and all, because no one taught me not to. I worry all the time that I will wake up in my old body. I learned how to play a Dutch card game at a commune when I was eleven, it bothers me that I no longer remember it. My mother sends me articles with titles like “Do You Cry Too Much? You May Be A Highly Sensitive Person!” I lived in Italy for a year but can only order coffee and swear in Italian. I dreamt once I had a baby and ate it; it did not taste good. My mother and sister found a dead body once. I am an excellent listener. My grandfather was a cowboy prostitute. My dad was a philanderer. I am convinced I am no good. The more people tell me that I will love a movie, the less likely I am to see it. I eat cottage cheese and fruit for breakfast every morning. I prefer to drive a truck. Facebook still suggests I be friends with my dead sister. The first night I drank, I lost my virginity while traveling on a school trip in China. Long after leaving my mother, my ex-stepfather got married and then shot himself in the head two weeks later. I was put into a slow reading group in first grade, and it made me so mad, I taught myself how to read at a 4th grade level by the end of the year. I can make croissants from scratch, it is a labor of love and lamination. I want my tombstone to read, BURIED ALIVE. Did I mention, I don’t like endings.
© Rose Andersen
[This piece was selected by Sara Crowley. Read Rose’s interview]