Pretty girl, there is no string. No boy or girl coming with a ring. Just the one on your pinky from your parent’s marriage, dissolved, your dad’s been dead eleven years this July, and there’s no him coming back, either.
There is no great career, (“She loved what she did,” as they lower the casket), only ones that wouldn’t exist if the world ended: Production Specialist, Client Success Coordinator, Vice President Streamliner of Processes.
No Superlatives. No high school where you were wanted, Catholic or Public, by parents or friends, or dream colleges, “important.”
No fitness of body for tassel-lined clothes or small tilts of profiles as you walk. Just this one, soft: can’t stick a diet and would IV Cherry Coke into your bloodstream if some do-it-different travel clinic would give it.
There is no God coming to save you, you have already been saved.
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