The institution is mere blocks from my apartment, so I walked down the hill in the setting sun. She and her roommate were just finishing dinner: turkey sandwich, condiments in little plastic packets, fruit cocktail in a tiny white unbreakable dish. I picked up more dirty laundry and sat on the bed, visiting and watching the northern sky darkening with flat gray clouds. I did my best to be present.
A half hour later I hiked home in sprinkling rain and whipping wind, feeling grateful that I could leave, at will, on my own two feet. I found a letter in my mailbox from my landsharks. Uh oh. Sure enough, in poorly typed, terse words, they informed me that my rent was going up $50 and that I'd better weed the front or else.
I went out front and dug up a few of the more obvious weeds with a knife, trying to avoid the nearly invisible strawberry plants, but I didn't even glance at the area my mother was weeding when she took the misstep that tossed her down a flight of concrete steps thirteen days ago. When I couldn't see through my wet glasses, I went back inside, just as the skies opened up under a massive rip of thunder.
I always wondered what it would feel like to finally hit my limit. I'm not quite there yet, but I can tell by the feeling in my chest that it may be close. I'd like to say I'm ready to drag up on the whole thing. Pull a geographical. Take my marbles and go home. But this is home. For now, anyway, and reality is outside, knocking on my door. I'm going to bury myself in a book and pretend I hear nothing.
