Lauren Becker

Sylvia P., The Grinch, and Me

Any mention of scissors makes me think of Sylvia Plath; they show up in a poem of hers. Can she and I both write about scissors? The better question is probably whether I dare put myself through the torment of living up to her standard? After heavy consideration, yes, I do dare. Do I have any right to even put myself in a sentence with her? No. But really, this scissor thing is hardly even comparable (I tell myself consolingly): her scissors were kitchen, mine are sewing. Hers were lost in the yard with the daffodils; mine get lost in the yards of fabric on my too-small table.