I eat toast without butter and drink water and no tea. Even God’s creation of hot grits does not appeal to me. If I put on a black shawl, I could be the poster woman for mourners.I don’t own a black shawl.Principal Vickers asks if I’m sick. He tells me he read on the Internet that orange juice mixed with fig skins is a great vitamin drink. I try to smile, nod, and thank him.Kristine describes riding to the Blue Ridge Mountains on Salvador’s Harley. She exclaims it was the trip of a lifetime. She still wants to know what to tell Eduardo. I tell her I have sworn off men for Lent. Surprising me, she says, “Yeah, I should try that sometime.”I sit in Lucy’s chair after waking early one morning from a dream where Harrison, still in carp form, swims toward me, greets me, and takes me to an underwater pagoda with golden doors. My muscles ache; my eyes are puffy from tears. I rub the fabric of the chair and somehow, it calms me. I do my breathing. In, out, steady.I think of the proverb about the person of integrity walking securely, but the one taking the crooked path being found out.Just like me.
