The store was more than a destination for pain relief; it was also a home to a new way to see. The shelves were stocked of items brimming with possibility. From Aspirin to Band-Aids.
Traci then asked if my mom had had Parkinson’s – no, I said, but she did have an essential tremor, which others often mistook for Parkinson’s. Was this coincidence?
When I came home that evening, the entire house was dry heaving with tension. The walls stretched, the roof groaned, the shades pulled themselves into a knot.
Floors are places where things are not supposed to be, but also where everything is, which is something I think about when I’m spending a lot of time on mine.
Singing is my favorite medicine, a contentment I purposely unwind into, as a practice of happiness. The effects are subtle but over time I have come to rely on the feelings of contentment that splash over me like gentle lapses of warm waters.
On a snowy night when Jill and I were relaxing at my apartment, I finally broached the mystery of the photo in her parents’ bedroom. “Who’s Sandra?” I asked.
He asks about the English, if it is correct. I exhale and note that some phrase is impossible in English. The whole thing is impossible, but I don’t say that.
The journey was long and tiring, but I was eager to see the place I once called home. As I drove through the village, I was struck by the stark contrast between the present and the past.
