Sometimes, I lose the thread of myself. I forget what I am - what this is. Something in the world bursts into flames and I am unable to get to the control buttons . . .
Inside my healing house, a woman is resting. Her limbs float - heavy and light. Strong and then weak. Her toes are right where they’ve always been. Her fingers stiff one moment, loose the next.
Back from Portland, I am wearing the white lace duster that I was (until now) afraid to wear over a lopsided cropped tee (gray)with green harem pants and lime green Keds
