I dreamed that I couldn’t participate in the family reunion because I’d been exposed to yellow fever. I wasn’t able to kiss any of my relatives or even go near them, even though they all wanted to come near me and kiss me.

The days recently have been like waves washing up and collecting in a big pile. When I imagine a pile of waves I see sort of a modern art sculpture. It makes a shore ugly and confusing. It mars the sight lines. But I don’t think of my life like a shore.

I think of my life like a rope that I keep pulling out of the ground, foot after foot, wondering when it’s going to run out. When I feel brave, I look down into the hole where the rope is coming from and see things. Sometimes the outline of a city, sometimes a dancing mouse.

Once or twice a year, I feel brave.

I have read, at this point, what seems like a lot of books. For the most part, what I read seems to just slide right off of my brain, but I know bits and pieces get in there anyway. Just like people. I think of some people as being flavorless and weak, like cups of gas station coffee. They cost pennies, or used to. And I’m sure there are those who think about me in the same way. But one way or the other, we leave a trace.

Doesn’t that make you feel good, at least a little bit?