The diagnosis came while we were living between coasts.
Our daughter and her family are in Los Angeles.
My husband is a university professor. During the school year, New York calibrates him — his identity, his love of learning, his writing, his students.
The event is the doorway, not the house.
I heard that once and it startled me. Not because it was clever — but because it felt uncomfortably accurate.
There are so many doorways in a life.
What armor will carry me through my day?
When my husband and I first met, he took me to Neiman’s in Cherry Creek, Denver.
It was early. We were still discovering each other. Still presenting polished versions.
Today I decided to embrace my anxiety.
Not conquer it.
Not silence it.
Rearrange it.
The world feels in such a state of rearranging that I assume the current is everywhere — humming through all of us. And after the heart flutter two months ago, I know I cannot ignore my own current anymore. I need to redirect it. I need to breathe.
I have dropped him at the curb at LAX hundreds of times.
Thirty years of departures.
Returns to New York after California visits.