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Our culture dictates that good people are productive, and in the Midwest, hardworking people create things that have purpose. Even though I was writing every day, my non-writing time was becoming a contest, between my inner self that delighted in writing for no purpose other than joy, and my social self that was flailing about, looking for an assignment to complete, for something to create.
After my friend died unexpectedly from a stroke 15 months ago, I wandered through my days in a fog, not able to focus on the tasks in front of me.
If I wondered if she’d been trapped inside her body unable to speak to us for that week, I’d think of her as a prisoner, stuck there in the hospital bed while her worried friends commented about the swelling in her legs, a phantom movement in her hand, her yellow nail polish.
My husband and I arrived at our friends’ house on a stormy spring evening; raindrops hung in the air as we stepped inside.
On our way to the kitchen, we passed a tumble of shoes and a full wall of children’s artwork hung up with push pins. Our friends immediately introduced us to their other guests — two other couples — and offered us drinks.
