Shattered Glass

Recently, I've been reminded that as I eat less, I want to scream more. Here's a fiction piece to remind myself that I need to watch my words, too, not just what I eat:

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"You make me sick!"

She watched as her son instantly withered into a dried-out autumn leaf. The promise of his newfound interest in archery crumbled under the heavy footprint of her words. She looked at those shoulders which were just starting to display the broad frame of the man he would become and the slight fuzz of darkness across his upper lip. He sunk into his favorite spot on the sofa and said "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to lose the arrow."

She was so excited to finally have a hobby to share with her son, who desperately needed his father in his life right now--and spent all her extra cash from the coffee can to buy him his first quiver, bow and handmade arrows with feathers in his favorite color--green.

She had so many words to say, to scream, to yell, to whisper, and yet the fewest of them created the most damage--the shattered glass of her son's soul was about to crumble into a messy heap. She knew she needed another outlet for those words; it was the only way to pick up the broken pieces, even if not to put them together.

She opened the phone book and found the listings under 'P'. Psychiatrists.

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Tip of the week: Do whatever it takes--scream, yell, run around the block--to walk away from the fridge when it's clear that the answer is not in there!