"If you're reading this, that means we're not alone."

By Abby Sher

Photo courtesy of Abby Sher

Photo courtesy of Abby Sher

This the song my grandma used to sing to my dad. And then he sang it to me. And I sang it every day after he died. Five, ten, twenty times a day. I had to. So he would know I loved him and missed him and never wanted it to be like this.

KID’S ROOM

My five-year-old is staring out the car window, murmuring something over and over again. This is how I used to do it – when I thought no one was looking. I whispered up to a patch of sky,

Please let everyone be happy healthy.
Please let everyone be healed completely painlessly soon.
Please forgive me for hurting anyone. For thinking mean things. For touching myself.
Please forgive me.
Please.

My five-year-old stops murmuring. He grins proudly.
“Guess what I just did, Mom?”
“What, hon?”
“I said fart one hundred times in a row!” he cackles. “You wanna try?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I do.” 

MOM'S LETTER. I showed my mom the angry scabs from where I’d cut myself. She crumpled as if I’d cut her too. Photo ©1in20  

I just want to make one person laugh. Then we can both be in the same place at the same time, gasping. Photo courtesy of Abby Sher

 

Abby Sher

Abby Sher

Age: 42 // Occupation: Writer, Performer, Mom

My name is Abby Sher, I write books, screenplays, fan letters and fart jokes. My story of living with severe OCD and how it helped me through the death of my parents, got a nod from Oprah.