Fill In The Blanks

I sit in the basement of the same church where my children attended preschool, sipping a spiced pumpkin latte', and contemplating the idea of pulling my knitting out of my purse. I need something to focus on besides my nervous attempt to avoid eye contact with the other women in the room. All that I can hear is the sound of my pulse throbbing in my ears. Women stand up to share their stories, but their voices are background noise, competing with my heart. My knitting sits in my lap, needles poised and unmoving. My eyes focus on the stillness of my fingers until they become unrecognizable as my own, and this is when I disconnect. When I'm uncomfortable or afraid, that is what I do. I separate myself from the fear, filling the space that exists with emptiness. My life is riddled with holes. The frayed memories, torn and faded, haphazardly patched and sewn. I find myself behind the wheel of my car, wondering in what direction I should go, because I'm painfully aware that I don't want to go home. Home means answering questions of which I have no answers. "The meeting was fine," I say.

I'm used to filling in the blanks.