A Piece of the World

by Christina Baker Kline

tackle box, hitching one leg forward, pivoting slightly, grunting with the effort, and I find myself oddly moved by his sweet mix of bravado and vulnerability.

feel the way I do when I lose something—a spool of thread, say—and search for it everywhere, only to discover it in an obvious place, like on the sideboard under the cloth.

synecdoche.

“I wanted to show that,” he says, gesturing at the painting. “I wanted to show . . . both the desire and the hesitation.” I reach for his fingers and draw them to my lips. He’s startled, I can tell; I’ve never done this before. It surprises me too.

think about all the ways I’ve been perceived by others over the years: as a burden, a dutiful daughter, a girlfriend, a spiteful wretch, an invalid . . . This is my letter to the World that never wrote to Me. “You showed what no one else could see,” I tell him. He squeezes my shoulder. Both of us are silent, looking at the painting.

What she wants most—what she truly yearns for—is what any of us want: to be seen. And look. She is.