The restrictions are redistricting, drawing lines on themselves to narrow and reshape, to constrict and shut out. The debris is decaying, making rubble into dust. A friend sends an email, apologizing for losing touch, which is too little too late, and more than I deserve. My father hugs me to pin down my arms, and I writhe weakly in his grasp. I lose consciousness. Yes, I’d rather be lonely than angry.

More and more, diagnosis is inescapable. I keep a tally in my notebook of the number of people I’ve told (7) and the number I wish I hadn’t. Friday would have been my grandfather’s 89th birthday. It’s the day I’ve set aside to call upon my higher self; to think well, or at least better, of everyone; to be engaged and worth the time; to become both boundless and insatiable. But he died because he never thought he needed doctors; and he was fully himself until the second he stopped breathing. So I’ve already made two crucial missteps.

In five days, I’ll tattoo ‘4.25.19′ onto my arm, and forget how perishable skin can be.

Popularity: 1% [?]