Water for Elephants

by Sara Gruen

I’ve decided it’s not about me at all. It’s a protective mechanism for them, a way of buffering themselves against my future death, like when teenagers distance themselves from their parents in preparation for leaving home.

Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.

It’s no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can’t find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?

When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn’t mean you should?

With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.