My older sister Terri and her friends put on a variety show in the loft over our garage one summer.
The skits were, of course, all the most sophisticated humor.
But best of all, the older kids let Grace and me join in.
Because I was six whole minutes younger than Grace, I got special attention as the “littlest”.
The centerpiece of the show was a two-scene “soap opera” play. In the first scene my role was to languish, dying, at the back of the stage. I was the sweet innocent child, dying of an incurable illness. I wasn’t in the second act because at that point I was dead. I remember there was a joke about them burying me in a suitcase because I was so small.
For the first time in my life, I was a solitary object of attention and appreciation. I wished I really HAD an incurable disease. Something painful so people would pity me. Nothing with coughing or snot to keep people away. Preferably something with ‘wasting’ as its main symptom so I could stay skinny without trying.
So… I just got out of the hospital. Again. Thanks a lot, past self.
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