in the seventh year

Today is the seventh anniversary of my moving into this green house on this green acre on this green island on this blue planet. I have missed writing to you here. All I can do is start and work my way backward with a scant map. I stepped on a yellow flag in my yard and it lit my shoes. The mermaid weathervane is gone from the roof of the little house on the beach and now the house shivers naked when the wind kicks up. I stepped on the scale that I hide from myself in the bathroom closet and no numbers appeared and I said am I dead? Later that night I fainted and cracked my head open on the tiles and my head bled and bled and my son was here and because there was so much blood he called the ambulance and the ambulance and subsequent hospital visit ate my Christmas. I now have a lumpy red scar on my forehead which I have named Ophelia Beulah-land McDashery. The hospital doctors declared that I had syncope and charged me three thousand dollars immediately for sticking my head together with actual glue. I have been telling doctors that I have syncope for over 40 years but was never believed or just ignored until the hospital declared it. Now it is on my permanent record "Patient faints." I'll be she goat goddamned. Later on I was poisoned by a sprig of rosemary.

Welcome back darklings. I have no idea if anyone will see this. Perhaps not. Now I'm going out into the world because I'm out of coffee. If you find me here I am thrilled. Forgive me my wanderings. I have wanted to return for a long while.

Love
Rebecca