Faking

The plumber fixed the leak in forty minutes.

I watched him work—the way he knew

exactly where to look, what to tighten,

how to make the water stop running.

I'm forty-two. I don't know how to do this.

I don't know how to fix anything

that breaks inside my own walls.

Yesterday I told someone I could

manage a project I don't understand.

I'm managing by pretending.

I'm managing by nodding in meetings

and taking notes I won't read.

The water was still pooling when he arrived.

It had spread across the wood,

darkening it, making it soft and wrong.

I stood there watching it spread,

and I realized: this is adulthood.

Not the competent version.

Not the version where you know

what you're doing.

This is it. This is me at forty-two,

calling strangers to fix what I broke,

nodding like I understand,

writing a check with a hand that shakes

because I'm terrified he'll ask me

when the leak started, and I'll have to admit

I didn't notice until it was ruined.

I used to think I'd be different.

I used to think by now I'd know

the names of tools, the sound

of confidence, the way to look at something broken

and see the fix instead of just

the damage.

I used to think I'd be someone

who fixed things.

Instead I'm someone who watches

and pays for the watching,

and smiles like I knew all along

exactly what needed to be done.

The plumber left. The leak is fixed.

I'm still broken. I'm still faking.

The water dried. The wood will warp.

Everything gets worse slowly,

and I'm too tired to notice

until a stranger has to come

and show me I was never

the person I thought I'd be.