Live Out Loud

The eyes of milk carton kids have always stared at me. I’ve never entered a room without at least one of them there to watch, living the lives they never could vicariously through me. Each time I run past one of life’s milestones, big or small, I’m reminded that they never will.

They watched me win the science fair. They watched me get my driver’s license (after several fraught attempts — sixth time’s the charm). They watched me apply to NYU with shaking hands. They watched me flush scarlet as I asked Mara Hudson to prom. I’ve never faced a failure alone, and I’ve whispered apologies after every victory. I was nothing but good to them. I understood. I thought they did, too.

But still they grasp as tight as they can onto my wrists and around my throat. Their innocent have-you-seen-me eyes are vengeful and stern. They want to steal the remnants of my eighteenth birthday cake from my breath. They want the pool chlorine scent caught in my skin. They want the acceptance letter hanging proudly on my wall and the photo of Mara and I with our matching corsages that I keep in my wallet.

And I want to give them all of that. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I could. I thought they knew I mourned them. But they’re tired of “I’m sorry,” they’re tired of “I wish things were different,” they’re tired of words. They just need someone else to feel the pain for a change. And while they couldn’t finish it — their little hands never grew strong enough to crush — the pressure was still there. I could have easily kicked them off of me, but I didn’t. I knew they needed to release whatever was inside them, and I knew I deserved it. If anything, I’m surprised it took them this long.

I should be glad that they’re gone now. I should be happy that I finally have my room to myself. But they will always stare at me, even if I can’t see them. And I will always miss them.