Finding Nicole

I always felt different. I would ask my mother if I was adopted and she’d deny it vehemently. In fact, she'd be completely offended and insulted. I grew up with just my mom and I have three older siblings, who were perfectly timed pregnancies, two years apart. All are tall, and striking, with thin lips, and thin noses, and they all look very much alike. The perfect family portrait. I always wanted to Sharpie myself into their childhood photos. I am ten years younger, Yes, ten. YEARS. I am too short to reach the top shelf at the grocery store without using the shelves below as a ladder, with big lips, a round nose, thick hair, and giant eyes. They are all incredibly talented, both musically and artistically. I can't even whistle, or trace a stick man. Growing up, I heard “You look nothing like anyone in your family” which only amplified my sense of being different. I desperately wanted siblings closer to my age. I envied anyone with...

My sister dragged me to a yoga & meditation class. When I say "dragged", what I really mean is she called and asked if I'd like to go and although I was feeling whiny and sick with a cold, I responded "Yippee! Yippee! Yes! Yes! Yes! I'll be waiting outside!!" I've done meditation training before and I love it. For that one week I was Buddhist, I felt truly lovely and peaceful so I was pretty excited to take this class. So we get there and set up our mats, with Sissy strangely positioning us at the front of the class, although I am very clearly a back of the class type. The instructor is a gentle voiced young woman who immediately makes me feel good just by speaking. Don't you just love people whose voices alone have the power to soothe? As we start doing the initial meditation, I'm trying hard to stop thinking, but my nose is running and I really need to have a hacking cough. Do you know how hard it is to hold back a cough? It ain...

My father died. My biological father. Just like that. We had just spoken in the weeks before. By email of course. Because that was the relationship we had. A life in writing. He joked that my emails were longer than Tolstoy. I joked that he should grab a snack before reading. I don't think I replied to his last message. We talked about lawn mowing. His fondness for it. Enjoying the mindlessness of it. My hatred for it. Given my Hell lawn. But I didn't reply. Because I thought I would have time. Our messages sometimes started mid sentence and likely would make little sense to anyone but us. His shenanigans often made me laugh out loud. Our emails read much like the ramblings of a crazy person with a lot of "..." and never ending sentences. And they could not have been more similar. I could read an email he wrote and think it was my own writing. But the last one, I didn't reply. And then he died. Leaving me no more time to show him that I am good eno...