On an alternative plane of time and space, I see myself:
I hand wash delicate handkerchiefs inherited from my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. I can see the sun through them where they hang, and I smile. It doesn’t hurt the muscles and joints in my arms and back to wring or lift them to dry.
I blend almonds and water into milk; my face erect, my movements quick and determined. The sound and dim stove light don’t threaten a migraine I’ve been tempering for days.
I spend an afternoon easefully popping into one store and another, stocking up on meat, and produce, and coffee, exploring cheerily with energy and gusto. I don’t spend day after day timidly moving from bed and then falling back.
I see her — that other me — clearly. Continue reading