March 21, 2021
Dear Frances,
Today, I nurse an old hurt. With one hand, I write to you. With the other, I hold a bag of frozen peas to my shoulder in vain. I can’t reach the ache on my own. I’ve created a funhouse of all the mirrors I have, and still, I can’t see the wound. But I know it’s there, and I know that it is a deep, swirling scene. A mess of sickly yellows and blues.
