It comes in untimely huffs and forced yawns.
My lungs are tight and my chest is crooked and my back is hunched.
It started in class this morning.
I noticed it when the bald Canadian was lecturing on American Art; I was sitting in my chair, palms on my thighs, being extra conscious of my breathing. And then, when I was driving home. And then again at yoga class. It was in yoga class when I couldn't breathe. Just relax, she says, but my shoulder blades are tensed and raised and I'm yawning and can't stop thinking.
I come home and everyone's in the living room. "Tomorrow," they say in unison like a Greek chorus, "the house is going up for sale." These molded peach walls and long slabs of wood. Tomorrow. "Okay," and I give a thumbs up and yawn. And that's it, right there.
And then, everything continues spiraling down.
Breathing's a bitch. And I'm reading about the British colonization of America. About Ralegh and Barlowe and Grenville and White. About the skinning of Indians and shipwrecks and gold plates and spoiled foods.
And tomorrow my childhood home is on the market.
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