Sometimes I feel like I am made of glass. Clear, clean, smudge free glass.
You see, I have noticed lately that I am invisible.
I can sit in my classroom, correcting papers at a table filled with fifth graders, and yet they forget that I am there. I learn a lot about what they think, what they like, WHO they like, what they fear and what they wish. I am there, but not seen.
Lately I have noticed that this phenomenon is happening more and more, wherever I go. I can cook a meal, serve it and clean it up, then simply disappear like a phantom vapor so that the diner can settle down with paperwork.
I can ask in what used to be my usual outspoken way for help, or support, or companionship. And somehow, in this new world, my words make no sound.
I feel like glass.
I feel as fragile as a glass vase, as breakable as a glass slipper.
I miss my old loud, visible self. I miss the smudges and smears, the substance of myself. I miss the days when I was really truly there, and no one simply walked past without seeing me.