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You Can Go Home Again (And So What?) Originally published in Hold me, please. I didn't go to work again today. Don't sigh like that. I'll try again tomorrow. I have sick days coming to me anyway. I woke up again nauseous. I couldn't tell you; you were sleeping so peacefully. (How do you do that? Are you really so happy when you're asleep?) No, don't answer. Just hold my hands -- they're cold. I fantasized about being a writer again today. (That's bad, you know?) I thought of a beginnning for a short story: "I had the kind of depression which made me want to find a Dempster Dumpster to crawl into in order to commiserate with whatever was in it," but that really doesn't fit the story I was fantasizing I wrote. It fits my mood this morning, although I would never want to commiserate with anything: I'm too selfish. Hold me tighter. So I went into the bathroom and as I usually do (you know this, right?) I took my socks and underwear with me and put them on the towel rack. After my shower, I draped the socks and underwear on my shoulder so I could pull the towel from the towel rack without disturbing them. Then I remembered to take the soap from the tub and put it back over the sink -- as you always ask me to do! But I dropped it, and leaning down to pick it up, one of my socks fell off my shoulder. I picked the sock up and flipped it onto my shoulder where, instead of landing peacefully, it bounces like a |
