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is totally out of whack. Nothing
you can do about that, either.
Not without therapy, and that
means telling someone you know
you’re just a tiny bit crazy.
How do you admit that without
giving up every bit of power
you have finally managed to grasp?
Some people have it worse than I do,
I guess. I mean I don’t wash my hands
seventeen times a day or count
every step I take, then take a couple
more until the exact number from
here to there is divisible by three.
My compulsion is simply order.
Everything in its place, and spaced
exactly so—one inch, no more, no less,
between hairbrush and comb. Two
inches, no more, no less, between pairs
of shoes on my closet floor. Black socks,
upper left corner of my top right dresser
drawer; white socks in the lower right.
I doubt Grandfather has even noticed
how every can in the cupboards is
organized alphabetically, labels out,
or that cleaning supplies beneath
the sink are arranged by color.
But Aunt Cora definitely has.
SHE DOESN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY
She thinks it’s funny, and funnier
