He knows I'm here. Jennifer and Debbie, a daughter from two different lives on each side. Thank you for years of truth, for our coffee and conversations, for hugs in Muscatine and telling me about your first wife, hitchhiking to college classes, the years you spent at the Vinton School, the time away from your family as a little boy and coming back to them.
It's hard to breathe. It's hard to know what to do next. It's hard to know which relative or friend to call or text.
The rain. I can't move in the blankness of my yellow quilt surrounded by blue walls. There is no waiting or later or maybe when I'm good enough. I have to move, to go out the door, to a specific place, to do a specific thing.