This morning I sliced my thumb open with my X-acto knife while trying to cut a pill in half. I wrapped a handkerchief around it and tried to scribble things down while Julia Alvarez was talking, but the bulkiness of the handkerchief made it hard to write and I thought, what if I lost my thumb? Not because of the cut, but just because shit happens, like you’re walking down Bergen Street to meet a friend and a car hits you in the ankle and the next thing you know, the nurse in the hospital is giving you a Valium so you don’t hyperventilate while they’re x raying your stupid foot, which you thought was just sprained, but really it’s broken, and you knew that, deep down or maybe not so deep,  because you’ve sprained it before, running for a bus in Boston, and then that time in Montevideo, on the too slippery floor of the museum that overlooked the sea.

And then you go home from the hospital in a cab that same night and spend four weeks in a cast laying on the living room couch whose cushions are full of old pens  like a shitty stationery store and you don’t wash your hair very much because it’s too hard to wrap the cast in a garbage bag and who cares, really, it could have been so much worse, you’re lucky, remember that, okay?

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