I’m not naïve enough to think anything like a Christmas card’ll change the way things are, but I want to make a statement. Not in words. A symbolic statement. Basically to make him feel bad. So I’ve taken the chopped-up pictures out of my photo album and they’re lying all over my bed. Me without Brian at the beach. Me without Brian at a Valentine’s dance. Me without Brian standing beside half of Jenn’s car. Me without Brian having a snowball fight. Me without Brian sitting on our front steps. Me playing with Brian’s dog while no one holds the leash. I thought I had a picture of us (me) in front of a Christmas tree, but I can’t find it. And I’m fighting a gigantic feeling that this whole idea is probably majorly immature. It’s like I’m a little kid going downhill on my tricycle with my feet off the pedals. Folding this construction paper in half reminds me of how I always made Christmas cards for Mom and Dad and Aunt Em and Granddad and Meredith.
