At the end, there was so much blame to spread around that we could all have taken a few shovelfuls home and rolled around in it like pigs in stink. But thatís not the way it goes with most of us. Most of us like to think that blame belongs on somebody elseís doorstep. And Iím no different.
I can picture the way it was on the day everything went bad, just as clearly as if I still had my sight. Of course, I probably made up most of it. You know how it goes: your mouth fills in the details your mind doesnít catch. And then later, when youíre looking back over everything that happened, your memory just smoothes out some of the corners, takes away that metal taste of fear, makes you seem a little braver than you really were, and then paints in a rosy-toned sunset.
Youíre always the hero of your own story. Even if thatís not the way it happened at all.
© Louise Ure, 2008
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