I Was Here

Tuesday, April 14th

Today, after school, we went to Ruby's diner like we always do on Tuesdays. Me, Frankie, Alice, and Ginny took our bikes and rode up there still in our uniforms from St. Margaret’s, all wrinkled and sweaty from the gym class.

Frankie got a run in her stocking during jump rope, and she didn’t even care. Ruby was working the counter today. She always gives us the glass bottles instead of the paper cups, like she does for the little kids. I think she likes us. She called us ‘’her Tuesday gang’’ winked, and then she gave Ginny an extra cherry in her Coke.

We all shared a basket of fries, and Frankie told us about her crush, Thomas. He’s the prettiest boy in school!

Alice swears she saw Mr. Lawson from the hardware store holding hands with the lady from the post office, but I don’t believe her. He’s too grumpy.

After that, we rode our bikes home in a crooked pack, wobbling and laughing and trying to race, but never really keeping score. We stopped at the big elm tree where Frankie dared me to climb halfway up, but I didn’t do it, my mom says we girls are not ‘’built for trees’’.

When we turned onto my street, we all stopped in front of my house and left our bikes in a messy line. All the girls came to say hi to my mother, and she always gives each of them a lollipop for the rest of the ride home.

Mom said we looked very cute that day, and she also took a picture of us in the front yard, with our bikes. She promised that on Sunday we would get some flowers to put in my bike’s basket – but we’ll see if she remembers. Grown-ups forget their promises a lot.

Today was a perfect Tuesday.

Maggie

Saturday, July 11th

Tonight was my first real date.

His name is Paul Meyers. He’s in my English Lit class – always sits near the windows and underlines everything with his blue pen. He’s quiet but funny and makes me feel like I’m the most precious girl in the world.

He asked me out after class last week. He said ‘’Do you want to go on a walk next week?’’ like it wasn’t a big deal. I said yes, and then spent four days overthinking what to wear. I ended up choosing the blue dress with the little daisy buttons. Mama said it made me look ‘’grown up but not grown tired'' which I think was her way of saying it wasn’t too tight or too short.

We got Cokes and walked past the little shops selling postcards and wind chimes. We talked about books – he likes Kerouac, which I don’t really understand, but I liked the way he talked about him.

I told him that I was thinking about studying English if I get into Bernard, and he nodded like it wasn’t silly at all.

We stopped at the end of the pier and watched the waves. He asked me if I’d ever been kissed before. Oh, how I blushed – and of course, he realized that I hadn’t. Some girls from school already had their sweethearts, but I didn’t really seem to fit with anyone ... so far, at least.

When we made our way home, he offered to walk me up to my front porch, which, of course, I accepted gracefully. He then gave me a goodbye kiss, soft and simple.

I sat on the stairs after he left and stared at the street for fifteen minutes. I don’t even remember how I got in the house.

Mama pretended not to be waiting for me. She asked if I had fun and told me to go to sleep.

All night, I kept thinking of all the new beginnings. The date, the kiss, college.

It felt like I was still me, but also someone new.

Maggie

Monday, March 18th

We signed the lease yesterday for apartment 3C, a corner unit, one broken window, and a fire escape, Paul says, feels like something out of a movie. The place smells like someone else’s cooking, but now it’s ours, and I love it. And I love him.

Tonight, we moved the last boxes, and I’m writing this while sitting on the hardwood floor with my feet in Paul’s lap. We don’t have any furniture yet – just stacks of books, boxes of clothes, and a lamp from his sister’s attic.

The girls said they’ll come visit once we have everything in order. Frankie’s already living in the city with her brother, and Alice moves a lot with her husband in the military, but it so happens we can all meet here in about two months or so. I haven’t seen them in so long – I miss them so much.

I started full-time at the museum this week. It feels like everything is new all over again, but if I have Paul, that’s everything I need.

I’ll be an assistant to the curator at MoMa, and that means something. I spent most of the day labeling slides and filing bios, but at lunch, I got to peek in on the installation of the new exhibit.

Huge canvases full of colors – felt like I had stepped into someone else’s life.

Paul’s working late shifts at the bookstore until he hears back from his interviews at the papers. He still wants to write, and he does every morning while drinking coffee.

He always leaves me these little poems that I’ve started gluing to the fridge.

Dinner tonight (and possibly many nights after this one) was served on the floor. Pasta straight from the pot, red sauce, and wine. He says things like ‘’We’re grown-ups now’’ and we both laugh like that’s the wildest fantasy.

I think this might be the happiest I’ve ever been.

Maggie

Sunday, November 10th

Anna cried most of the night.

Her little lungs are stronger than I expected, for something barely bigger than a roasted chicken.

I held her in the rocking chair until 3:30am, humming old lullabies my mama taught me before she was gone. My arms ached, and the house was so quiet between her cries that I could hear everything settling into place.

Paul was asleep on the couch. He tries, but the crying rattles him. He says it makes him feel helpless.

She finally fell asleep on my chest. Her hair smelled like milk and sweetness. It was such a blessing watching her tiny mouth twitch like she was chasing something in her dreams.

We moved here three months ago – an old colonial with green shutters and uneven doors.

There’s a patch of forest out back, and a wraparound porch that feels like my mother’s hug. I think I really needed this.

Paul has painted the nursery yellow. I wanted pink or at least lilac, but he picked the color. He said ‘’Yellow will make her brave’’ So, I didn’t argue.

I’ve been trying to write again. Just little things – essays and feelings mostly. It’s hard to concentrate. I feel like someone else now – not just a woman, a wife, or even a mother, I feel like a shape between all of them. Blurred at the edges, without definition.

I thought I would feel more certain. Like becoming a mother would unlock some secret, something that tells you who you’re supposed to be and how you’re supposed to act. But mostly I just feel tired. Full of something that aches in both good and bad ways.

Anna smiled yesterday, a real smile. It was so bright I almost cried.

I am in love with the photo we took when we brought her home. So small. So fragile.

I don’t know who I am now. But I know I am hers.

Maggie

Thursday, May 9th

Paul wouldn’t look at me this morning.

He was upset because I am ‘’too strict’’ with Anna. He says I’m oppressing her spirit. But there’s a certain way girls need to act – the world outside is vicious, and Paul doesn’t get that. Men don’t understand this.

Anna was upset too. I brushed her hair too hard, and she yelped, and I snapped.

I’m trying my best...

I cried after she left. Quietly in the kitchen. I don’t know why these things hit me so hard. I think I just want to feel like I’m doing something right. Being a mother. Being good at it. But I never seem to reach the finish line, and she’s now getting old enough to see it, too.

Paul is tired lately. Distant most days. He works late, says it’s busy season but sometimes I watch him over dinner and feel like I’m standing across someone I used to know better than myself.

He still brings me flowers every Sunday – whatever’s cheapest at the corner store – but I can’t remember the last time we kissed like we meant it.

I had a dream a few nights ago. I was outside Ruby’s Diner in my school uniform, holding a glass bottle of Coke. Frankie was there, and Alice and Ginny too. We were all jumping rope and laughing.

I woke up with the taste of summer in my mouth and the feeling you get when you’ve just forgotten what you wanted to say

I miss myself.

The version of me that filled rooms with laughter and ideas.

But Anna drew me a picture last week. We were standing under a big yellow sun, smiling, surrounded by flowers. She wrote ‘’Mommy and Me’’ in big uneven letters. I took a photo of her holding it and put it in my purse like it was something holy.

Maybe that’s what motherhood is – storing up these tiny moments like acorns, hoping they’ll feed you once everything else runs dry.

I hope they know I love them. Even when I’m clumsy with it.

Maggie

Friday, October 25th

Paul sleeps most of the day now.

The doctor says his pain is being managed, but he cries when he moves – tiny, involuntary sounds that make me want to crawl out of my own skin. I tuck the blanket around him like it’s something useful, like warmth can keep him here.

I still cook breakfast like I used to. Two eggs, toast, and grapefruit, but now I eat alone at the table.

I can’t stop doing it.

It feels wrong not to – as if skipping it, changing our routine, would be admitting he’s already gone in some way.

Anna also called last week. She said she’s busy.

Asked how he was doing, but not really. Not in the way that means ‘’I want to hear’’.

There’s a flatness in her voice, like she’s dialing from somewhere beyond my reach.

She said the boys play soccer every weekend, that work is a lot, and ‘’ I’ll try to visit as soon as I can’’

I didn’t ask her to hurry. I don’t want to be a weight she resents. I was too hard on her when she was young. I know that now. I wanted her to be strong, so I buried my softness.

She learned to do the same.

This afternoon, I sat on the edge of the bed and saw Paul sleep.

His breathing is shallow, like he’s already half gone. His fingers twitched for a moment, and I let myself believe he was dreaming about us. Maybe that day in 1970 when we danced barefoot in our kitchen. We laughed so hard our downstairs neighbor banged on the ceiling.

It’s funny. You built a life brick by brick – noise and color and movement – and then one day the silence arrives like fog.

I never realized how much of it was him. His voice, his footsteps, his keys on the counter. Now everything is still.

I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. I’m afraid he’ll leave while I’m looking.

Maggie

Tuesday, January 3rd

I made tea this morning and poured one cup. The habit of pouring two is long gone.

I stood still, watching the steam rise, and felt something twist behind my ribs. I thought of him, and said his name – like a prayer, or an apology.

I went through boxes in the attic today. Old papers, Anna’s school drawings, and a photo of us by the lake. Paul was holding her up in the water, and she was laughing so hard you could see every baby tooth in her mouth. I don’t think she remembers that day.

She sent a card last month. Just a card. No call. It had a Christmas tree on the front and wishes written on the back. She signed it, Love, Anna. Nothing else. No news. No ‘’the boys say hi’’ just these few words written in a hurry.

I left her a message a few days ago, told her Frankie died. I haven’t heard back.

Maybe she’s tired of me. Or maybe I was never what she needed. I tried to make her ready for the world, I didn’t want her to make herself small like I had to so many times. Seems like all I taught her was to close off. The boys – I’ve only seen them twice. One of them had a birthday last week. I sent a card with money inside. I don’t know if they got it.

I spend most of my days with the radio on. This world – bright, loud, fast – scares me. I feel disposable when I try to learn anything new. I walk this house like I’m haunting it. The pictures on the walls feel louder than I do.

Some days, I don’t speak to another person. Not even one. The silence isn’t a stranger anymore. It’s just there.

I don’t think people know what it feels like to be forgotten slowly.

But I made soup tonight and lit a candle. I’m still here, even if no one sees me.

Margaret

Wednesday June 7th, 2025

I should be honest now.

None of these stories were written at their time.

I sit and watch a picture wall – cracked frame corners and fragments of a past life.

There’s a picture of me and the girls in the front yard with our bikes. We’re ten. I can almost hear Ginny laughing… or maybe that’s just what I imagined we sounded like. I’m not sure anymore if I remember the day or just the photograph.

There’s a picture of me before my first date with Paul. One of us in apartment 3C. One of Anna in her yellow nursery.

I didn’t write anything down back then. I was always going to – but life kept going, and I thought I’d remember it all anyway.

I didn’t.

So, I’ve written it now. I finally put on paper all the ghosts that stare back from that wall.

The past month, in this chair by the window, I made up the dates and wrote the memories.

The past doesn’t come back all at once – it drips in. Bits of light, bits of sound, a smell.

Maybe I even wrote them in the way I wish it had been.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what it was all leading toward. A house full of shadows and no one left to name them.

Life just keeps going, with or without you. Before you realize it, you’re not part of anyone’s story anymore.

You’re just a memory someone hasn’t bothered to remember yet.

I told the nurse on the phone I’m fine, but the kettle’s still on the stove and I don’t remember if I turned it off.

Is this what it means to grow old? To be quietly set aside.

I miss him.

I miss me.

I’m just writing now to trace the outline of who we used to be.

Margaret.