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Why does my story matter?

This is my question today.

And usually every Wednesday.

Or Tuesday.

Depends.

Why does my story matter?

Okay, so I can weave words in a way sometimes

that makes you almost cry

that makes you remember the time you had blintzes in that cafe on 2nd Avenue

that makes you look frantically in the closet for the sundress you know you didn’t sell at Buffalo Exchange — you know it, you just know it, but where IS it — for a pair of people earrings that looked like the ones you got at Accessory Place with babysitting money

that makes you comb the recesses of your mind for the smell of your grandmother’s perfume

that makes you wish you didn’t throw away your walkman

or your diary from 5th grade the one with the pink plastic cover that you got for free with a magazine subscription that said

“I got my period today.”

Sometimes I do that to you.

I make you remember.

Is that enough to make my story matter?

Sometimes I write what comes to me and what comes to you is like what comes to me

and it makes you miss someone

or kiss someone

or call someone

or, better yet, write them a letter

or draw them a picture or make them a mixed tape.

Or send them back the mixed tape they made for you once.

Or twelve of them.

Does that make my story matter?

Sometimes

on Wednesdays

or Tuesdays

Depends —

I wonder why I write.

I wonder my story matters.

I wonder why it can’t just live inside me

just inside me

just there

for me.

What must I tell you?

Why must I make sense of it?

Why must I

make it beautiful

or agonizing

or wonderous?

Why must I?

 

 

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