"Am I a good actor?"

I called Christa on her birthday. Here are the topics of conversation, roughly in order:

1. visiting the local tick farm for her birthday date (actually, she hopes for Thai Cafe and the OKC zoo).

2. a discussion of the beloved Jack, Spot, and Racetrack, and whether any of them would taste good with pepper and a dash of lemon.

3. this morning Ruthie said, "Libby's on the phone" when it was really Mutti.

4. Chris beautifully delivered to me the way Mutti said "Hello? Is this Christa?"
(proof that she had indeed been tricked)

5. This led to other ideas. Chris had a long line of "people who wanted to talk to me," including brother Calvin and an anonymous Private Eye who found a body and wanted "The whole truth, ma'am."

Well, Christa, I have to go now. Happy birthday!

I love you Lib.

I love you too.

Hey, Libby?

yes?

Am I a good actor?

Crossfire

(for the people I've loved over the years who suffer from depression or something similar; if you don't like emo-style introspection, you need not read further)

I.
I did not want to exist, so I pretended you did not.

I took you down as I shot myself.

I cried out for help, but I could not find relief. I growled at you from the corner of my soul as I licked the gaping wounds.

I have returned; I am better.
Talk to me, friend, and stay a while.


II.
I was taken down in the crossfire; closed in by an airless, sullen void of burning grief.

I wanted to put an arm around you; but you refused. I wanted to take you out of the corner and into the light of day. The light of day was too terrible.

I can no longer be well; but I forgive you.
I need help, but not yours.
I offer love, but not mine.