Excuses, by Iris N. Schwartz

Didn’t write home from camp ─ I’d lost my pencil. Father called, said: “Demand another!”

As a child, tried to avoid hanging laundry or vacuuming. Opted for drawing, writing, singing. (Did chores, too. No choice.)

Never learned to brew coffee. Preferred not to prepare it. For anyone.

Chose not to request a raise. (Hadn’t improved.)

Piled on pounds for years: noodles substitute for hope.

Waited so long to break up with former boyfriend ─ though he was cheap as sequins, fun chiefly in bed ─ that he finally dumped me.

Shred this as soon as you’ve finished.

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