Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Our family, less one cat, filled that little apartment nicely. We obscured an oppressive view with a tiered rainforest of houseplants, and my most pervasive visual memory from that time is of sunlight filtering through variegated greenery. Mat and I both worked several jobs, but our dwelling felt like home.
One winter evening, having stripped the leaves and thorns from perhaps a thousand roses in anticipation of Valentine's Day, I left my employer's floral shop with a pounding headache and a rash on both arms. By the time I reached my stop on the Orange Line, I was experiencing my first, and worst, full fledged migraine, complete with auditory and visual effects. I lay on the sidewalk, in the privacy of a quiet junkyard alley, and cried into the coolness of the pavement until I felt ready to walk the remaining block to home. In defense of my neighbors and the neighborhood, I must say that I was neither robbed nor raped during that self-pitying wallow.
. . . . to be continued . . .