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October 3, 2011 By Leave a Comment

If there was a return for our defective parts, we’d all be perfect (and lacking in character)

Dear Self-Conscious Mail Collector, Our only encounter was one that was filled with a deafening silence. As I watched you sheepishly fish your little hand around inside the mailbox which most likely contained bills and flyers I could sense that you felt a little uneasy. I stood patiently and shifted on my feet a bit so you wouldn't notice that I was actually inching further away; trying desparately to ease the awkward tension. It wasn't until you turned the lock on your mailbox door and stepped back toward that street that I noticed the source of your angst: your plastic leg brace. As I watched you involuntarily hobble down the street with your head hung low, averting any eye contact with those passing by I could tell that you wished for nothing more than to shrink into oblivion. What struck me more than your intense self-consciousness at the mere of maybe 8, was the pain that I felt knowing that it was people like me who made you feel that way. Whether it's kids at school or their parents who let their gaze linger on your encased calf longer than necessary, we are the ones who make you feel defective . . . broken. Here's a little secret: we're all defective and broken. We're just good at pretending we're not. One day your leg will heal and you will walk tall while the rest of us continue to hide the brokeness we pretend we don't have.
This is one of a kind
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