Thoughts from the past pull me down. Can’t look at this stuff. I’m older now, with more awareness. Sure, I’d do things differently in an impossible world. The horror is misplaced, in other words. I imagine something that never could have been. There is no crime! Women are better at this, I think. More present.
“You chose this,” she says, but without rancor, like noting the year the big holly tree broke its roots and fell against the house. “You can do absolutely anything you want.”
I can’t believe I’m not in jail. The bars are so familiar. The cot, the toilet, the way the room smells. Everything a-jumble on the frontier, living in the cabin of the plane we crashed in. Thinking of the big black dog.