Middle Name Mag - Monday, May 16, 2016

Hi, it's me.


I just wanted to write to tell you that I’ve made a horrible mistake and I’m sorry. For the most part of the past couple of years, I have regarded the beautiful anthology of stories and love you have collected for me as a car manual as opposed to the fairytale which you describe to me as the best sixteen years of your life. You carried these memories like prized medals, and I wore them like pieces of string messily tied around my fingers. Now your medals have faded from age and my strings are starting to unravel due to my lack of upkeep, and I have realized that I might never forgive myself if I let this part of our lives disappear. When people ask me where I come from I want them to know that this is it. So, from me to you, I think our story is worth telling.


I don’t remember when you moved to be here with us. Maybe because I wasn’t alive yet, maybe because I’d like to believe that I was special enough for you to shoot yourself however many miles down south to be with me. Regardless, I’m sure that Auntie Marian threw a fit, probably assuming that you chose Conner and me over her kids. The thing I do know for sure is that you were here when I popped into the world on June 18th. I can see you standing next to the hospital bed holding me in your nimble hands, calloused from countless hours performing extensive surgery. I’d like to think that you said something reverent and beautiful, and knowing you, there is no scenario where you did not thank God or my parents, or maybe even me, for allowing Grace Eliene Olson to be a part of your life. I didn’t understand this part of you for a long time, the part that was endlessly gracious and grateful. Perhaps I was too young and self-absorbed to comprehend the beauty of your selflessness. I wish that I could go back to that hospital room and respond in kind, whisper in your ear how lucky I am to have you, but you can never go back, only forward.


- grace eliene



If the Shoe Fits

Middle Name Mag - Tuesday, April 05, 2016

Do you remember going into your mother’s closet and trying on all of her shoes? I do.My mom’s closet lay beyond her bathroom, and, after trying on various lipsticks and spraying her flowery perfume into the air until a thin layer of sharp-scented dew covered the countertop, I would parade in, happy to play Cinderella for a few hours with my mother’s high heels. I would dance around in shiny black flats or strappy golden heels, toes sliding into a red pump’s tight point, heels clapping against a thick cork wedge.


As I got older, my feet grew to the size of diving flippers that slapped the ground instead of dancing lightly across it. I could no longer so easily slip my feet into my mother’s petite, delicate shoes. I would sit on the floor of her closet, and attempt to cram my feet into the shoes that once made me feel like a princess, this time feeling rather like an ugly step sister. I stomped around, my feet spilling over the toes or hanging off the back of a heel. This ritual would continue until my feet ached and blistered, and only then would I return to my room, defeated.


When I turned 15, I fell in love with a boy. It was a perfect fit. He called me beautiful, and when I ran, he always chased. My heart soared at the thought of being loved and seen as special in the eyes of someone who wasn’t my mother or father. I was living in a fairytale. But in a few months, the clock chimed midnight on the eve of our relationship, and just like that, the magic disappeared. I pursued him desperately. He ran and I chased, him always the faster. I called out, showing him my heart, hoping he would want me again. He didn’t. I watched as my vision of a perfect Prince Charming shattered like glass. He stopped calling me beautiful. He stopped thinking I was special. It turned out the shoe just never fit. I worry that I will find myself at 80 years old still trying to wedge my feet into teensy heels, unable to squeeze my toes into the fragile pairs some girls twirl in so easily. For now, I guess I’ll just keep trying on shoes, venturing out of my mother’s closet to pursue a perfect fit.


- grace eliene



Copyright © 2016 Middle Name Mag. All Rights Reserved.