Katie McMorris
I'm told to welcome my pain. So I name my pain Margo. Give her a shape. A personality. Some flair. Margo towers over me and wears those floral dresses fancy women wear to fancy garden parties. Margo interrupts me at the worst times, knocks and rattles my door and tilts her head like a cat while I'm trying to sew a button on my favorite shirt. And she's always floating. That's Margo for you. She knocks and rattles my door and tilts her head like a cat for at least an hour. I finally invite her in for tea. Margo looks very pretty in her floral dress. I don't look very pretty, my sweatpants are threadbare. I warm the tea kettle, and Margo asks, do you have any Earl Grey? Luckily I do. Do you love me? she asks. Sadly I don't. She finishes her tea, eats a scone. Sometimes I don't see her leave. That's Margo for you. She comes back when I'm trying to sew my house to the sidewalk. Margo looks very pretty in her hoop earrings. I don't look very pretty, my ears aren't pierced. I warm the tea kettle, and Margo asks, do you have any Darjeeling? Luckily I do. Do you love me? she asks. Sadly I don't. She finishes her tea, spills crumbs down her front. She comes back again when I'm trying to sew a fault line closed. Margo looks very pretty in her straw hat. I don't look very pretty, I've barely brushed my hair. I warm the tea kettle, and Margo asks, do you have any English breakfast? Luckily I do. Do you love me? she asks. Sadly I don't. She finishes her tea, smears her lipstick on the cup. This happens so frequently. Sometimes Margo is lurking in my kitchen and I'm too busy polishing the china to notice until all the tea is gone. Margo comes back when I'm trying to sew my happiness onto my body. Margo looks very pretty. I don't look very pretty. I warm the tea kettle, and Margo asks, do you have any? Luckily I do. I have some. Do you love me? she asks. I look down. My happiness is spread across my lap like an afghan, my fingers sprinkled with crumbs.