The pain voice—something that in my imagination sounds like a wild, red head named Irene. I see her wildly gesturing to me, pronouncing blatant statements like you will never get better, only worse, death is near as is suffering. For God’s sake, do not leave the house. Turns out, it is for my protection that my brain has conjured a ruminating Irene. And since I caught Covid, Irene’s been sun hot. But as Rachel Zoffness says in her new book TELL ME WHERE IT HURTS, hurt does no

I think of my heart as a passport, and every book and every person or creature I have ever loved, a stamp to another country. To a place of discovery. A whole other world. I’m remembering The Flamenco Academy, Rebecca, Jamaica Inn, The Memoirs of a Geisha, The Lord of the Rings, Nana, The Little Prince, Eloise at the Plaza. The last two lines of Margo’s Got Money Troubles. All these words, love stories etched on my epicardium. Even the hummingbird has its stamp. Yet, not ne

I wonder if the white star magnolia ever asks itself if it is right-sized, or if its flower, the one with delicate petal-like tepals, is the correct shade of alabaster white. I wonder if it asks itself if it has enough flowers blooming on its tree or if its fragrance is the right type of sweet or musky. I wonder if the osprey dive bombs into the cove, catches a fish, then thinks, as he bats his enormous wings onto the beach, “That thing is too small, you idiot.” I wonder if