The Monthly Theme Essays are a collection of essays written each month on a predetermined theme. These essays are always published during the last week of the month. To submit a Monthly Theme Essay check out our upcoming themes.
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I was seven years old when I fell in love with the blonde-haired, hardworking heroine who was unceasingly kind to everyone, regardless of whether they deserved it. The girl with birds and mice tripping over themselves to help her. My mom had taken my sister and me to the small movie theatre in town where we’d shared a bag of penny candy, leaned back in our plush red velvet seats and watched the Disney special.
Read MoreI’m toddling down our road, stumbling my way over the loose rocks and gravel in my light-up Barbie shoes. The journey seems long, arduous, and I am panting from exertion. Our house is still in view, the apple tree in the front yard partially blocking the front door. Shuffling my pants down to my ankles, I squat to pee. I ditch the pants and shoes and patter down the road, more slowly now on the sensitive soles of my chubby feet. I hear my mother’s call from the porch and streak now, as fast as I can, away from the house. A few moments later, I hear her footsteps behind me, and she catches me by the arm. Blushing deeply from embarrassment at my squirming, naked body in her arms, she forces a smile and waves politely at the neighbors. She whispers through gritted teeth, “Where are your clothes?”
Read MoreThe eldest and only daughter, I had always liked being alone with a book in my hands, and my bedroom door closed. If the chaos of my three younger brothers seeped into my imagination at work, I’d lock the door. My mother called it my retreat from the noise but often would disrupt it herself with chores or babysitting for me since I was the right hand she turned to when she was overwhelmed. Growing up, I heard my mother yell my name from afar more than I heard it any other way.
Read MoreIt’s been seventy-two days.
I manage to get the dog out this morning and the kids some breakfast, but then crawl right back under the covers. I don’t have it today. I am exhausted and my body hurts though I have barely moved in days.
The slight rise and fall of my chest is the only evidence that I am not dead. Long pauses between breaths; my breathing is shallow and slow. Cradled by the foam liner of the mattress, my limbs are heavy and still. Staring at the wall, I barely even blink, hopeful that time will pass around me and leave me overlooked in the safety of our bed. Maybe if I remain still, the kids will forget that I am here? Maybe they won’t need me for anything?
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