I could be anyone. You don’t care. Because I am no one. Don’t misunderstand; I was a person. As much a person as you.

I was born. I dribbled and drooled like all infants do. My parents dressed me in odd garments that fit the current style. I was photographed like all children are. My parents tucked me into bed at night. I was read stories. I had my tantrums; I screamed and wailed and would be sent to my room.

I had a swing that I sat on and watched the clouds pass. I was excited by birthdays and Christmas’. My family was close. We shared lots of laughter. I received that letter; my parents took me to buy my wand. I tried many, before they found mine. I said my goodbyes. I was nervous. I got sorted into a house. I made friends.

My clothes got bigger. My body changed. I failed in some subjects and excelled in others. I got in trouble; I had detentions. I had all-nighters on overdue homework. I argued with friends. I become closer to others. I was the victim of rumours. I had crushes. I pondered over misread smiles. I went on dates. I had my first kiss. I spent the night crying at my first broken heart.

I had more partners. I had sex. I fell in love. I passed most of my exams. I left with a certificate; my parents cried. More pictures were taken. I went travelling. I found new hobbies. I got a job. I got promoted. I left my job. I got another. I met more partners. I fell in love again.

I moved in with my lover. We argued. We laughed. We were so sure that we were living. We got engaged. I wondered what happened to all the friends who’d sworn we’d be friends forever. I got married. We got pregnant. We spoke to the bump. We felt loved. We had a baby. I liked making it laugh.

My baby got older. I found more hobbies. We argued more. We divorced. My child went to school. I aged. I buried my parents. More grey hair appeared.

My child fell in love. They got married. I have a grandchild. I’m lonely. I get sick. I wonder on all those missed chances. My health deteriorates. I get worse. My baby wept as I’m spoon-fed. I die on a date that I knew too late.

But that doesn’t matter to you. You’ll look at my name on a family tree. You’ll hover over my birth date and my death date. That’s all you’ll know. That’s all you’ll care for. You won’t care about my tears, my grades, or how I spent my birthdays. Your eyes will roam to another name. I could have been a murderer, a martyr, a scarlet woman, had amnesia or hated my child. But you’ll never know. What happened to all those photos? Those certificates? Those diary entries?


I could have been anyone.

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