Almost two months have passed since I left and came to live here. I only went back to the old house once, to pack up some clothes and a few books. Aunt Irene said not to worry about bringing a lot of things with me. We’d buy what I needed, kind of like taking on a new identity. I know she wants to give me a fresh start, but I can’t erase fifteen years with a new bedspread and a different address.
My old life is somewhere deep inside. A closet full of new clothes and a different zip code won’t make it go away. Some days I have to look in the mirror, touch my face, speak in my voice, to see that at least I’m in the same body; at least I haven’t disappeared altogether.
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