Invisible Blacklist

“And in the window,” my mother told me, “The sign  said, ‘WE SALE WATER.’  Really!  And I said, ‘This is why she hates this town.  Can’t spell a damn thing.'”

My mother never asks me why I don’t come home anymore.  She understands.  She knows how sad I get when I see the restaurant at which I am numero uno on the invisible blacklist.  She knows how uncomfortable it feels when I walk into the bar and everyone turns to look at me.  She knows I have no answer for my high school friends who demand to know when I’ll be back for good.

So I hide behind giant sunglasses or inside a wool coat with the collar turned up for two-to-three days when I finally break down and go back.

She’s right.  None of them can spell a damn thing.

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