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How Close I Come To Breaking
“Are you all right Eze?” said Theresa. Her eyes were wide open, soft and searching.
Her question elicited a squirm from me. How does she know?
Hadn’t I done enough to obscure my moribund disposition, project an agreeable countenance, exert a tenuous grip on the all-important baseline? Still, Theresa, my baby sister, was perspicuous, an incisive observer of my behavior. As she waited for my answer, she focused her eyes, leaving me to wonder: Would she be able to poke holes through my veneer?
I was going to have to brighten up, straighten my back, squeeze a pained smile through my teeth. Express confidence and contentment. I did all that, although it took all of my effort to unfold my spine and manipulate that area of my face. Still I did it because I did not want to ruin another Christmas holiday.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You seem somewhat sad.”
Actually, I had been struggling with feeling sort of hollow inside on that particular day, the sensation expanding from my digestive system to my chest, creating a vacuous hole leaking verve . As I approach middle age — I’d just turned forty-five — dissatisfaction with how things are progressing in my life feeds the thing that creates the hole.
