Originally posted on Southern Exposure:
There’s a voice mail from my mother that I like to listen to sometimes—when I’m up too late, or home alone and writing on a long and lonely afternoon. It’s from August 22nd, 2012. I’ve just come home from a visit, with (her words) my new beau, and she’s on her way out to Caloosa. There’s some (her words again) stormy weather coming to Florida, and she misses me, but not as much as usual, because for the first time in a long time she’s not worried about me; I seem to be in a good place.
Yesterday morning—long before dawn, but still the twenty-sixth—made one year. Twelve months, four seasons (inasmuch as we have seasons here), and all the joy and darkness they have layered over us. I look upon the calendar, incredulous. It might as well have been last week. Or never—in weaker moments of cognition…
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