PeonyMagazine

  October always sneaks up on me. The air turns sharper, the evening falls darker before I’m ready, and suddenly Halloween decorations start creeping across porches and store windows. Masks everywhere, plastic grins, hollow eyes, faces stretched into something almost human, almost monstrous. I can’t help but think about the other masks, the ones we wear long after Halloween ends.  Not the kind you can buy at Target. The ones you put on in the morning before a work meeting, or when you bump into someone who asks,  “How are you?”  and you answer,  “I’m fine,”  even when you’re not.  For me, my mask has always been the “capable one.” The one who holds it together, gets things done, doesn’t let the cracks show. On the outside, I look calm, steady. Inside, I’m often shaking.  There was a day last year I’ll never forget. It was October, fittingly enough. I’d just come home from work, exhausted, and I dropped my bag on the floor and sat down at the edge ...