A Hole on My Face

valerie_croppedValerie lives in Boston (which she loves) and crunches numbers by day (which she tolerates). She is always searching for a creative outlet, which has led to some dabbling in learning Spanish, ballroom dancing, trying new recipes, sewing, making crafts with her nieces and nephews, and writing. When she wrote this a few years ago, she imagined someday publishing it with a bio that showed some resolution to the story, but that’s still a work in process.

“Why do you have a hole on your face?”

“What?” I am sitting in my cousin’s living room, casually skimming through a magazine. I look up, taken by surprise.

“Why do you have a hole on your face?” three-year-old Ellie repeats. I must not be understanding her correctly. Maybe she forgot the word for mole? I have plenty of those.

“Why, Valerie?” she asks.

“Okay, where is the hole?”

The little girl stands up from the mounds of books that surround her and reaches her little arm across my lap. She points her finger and touches my right cheek, just below my glasses. “There. That hole.”

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