The story is big enough to travel on its own circuit. I imagine it with its own lunch plans and speaking engagements. It’s flexible too – no doubt twisting itself to meet each narrator’s purposes. A perfect lunch date – inviting its companions to dine on sumptuous and salacious bones of someone else’s misfortune. But it protects them too – these interlopers – its wraps them in the knowledge that this will never happen to them. They can safely gorge themselves on the richly spiced meat of my story, but share in none of the gristle.
All of this I expected though. I can hardly prohibit a story I birthed from traveling on its tireless schedule. It’s only human nature to talk, share, entertain. And all would be fine if things only stopped there. But they don’t.
You see, the story is big enough to leave a mark. And no matter how much I wash my face; no mater how much makeup I slather on – it remains. When I think it’s begun to fade, someone will kindly remind me that it’s still there – casually overshadowing everything else.
It is me. And it is what they see.
But not everyone.
There are some people who have sat with the story and then invited me in. There are those who have looked past the story’s shadow to see a life that has continued after. There are those who see a person who a single story does not define; a person who can be known for more than one thing. Though my story may grace a wider circle, those who can see past it grant me the thing I need most – the chance to define myself.