A choir of pink-cheeked boys lift their voices as a priest seems to pull the music from their throats with the urging of his hands.
Mary E. PearsonEyes don't breath. I know that much. But her eyes look breathless
Mary E. PearsonDo certain events in our lives leave a permanent mark, freezing a piece of us in time, and that becomes a touchstone that we measure the rest of our lives against?
Mary E. PearsonI used to be someone.
Someone named Jenna Fox.
That's what they tell me. But I am more than a name. More than they tell me. More than the facts and statistics they fill me with. More than the video clips they make me watch.
More. But I'm not sure what.
They looked shallow, self-absorbed. And a small, strangled part of me envied them.
Mary E. PearsonIt's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.
Mary E. PearsonI used to be someone.
Mary E. PearsonMots clés someone-past
But I am more than a name. More than they tell me
Mary E. PearsonAm I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?
Mary E. PearsonAre the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?
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