“I miss your record player, and the sense of home you carried with you, although you’d never really been at home anywhere.”
How much importance is seemly to place on our work and friends? How big a feeling are we allowed to feel for things that are not global calamities, or men?
I grew up with food stamps, latchkeys, Lee jeans from an outlet, Campbell’s soup, three deadbeat dads, and a mother who wrote letters to a TV evangelist praying for a husband.
I know it’s not supposed to work this way. We damaged daughters should seek healing in therapy, not romantic relationships.
They imagine I’m his “caretaker,” a loaded word, veritably stuffed with presumption.
Once upon a time, in a land much larger than this one . . .
A friend as your mortgage holder? It seemed like one of those things you should never, ever do.