Emma was working on doing one thing at a time. She could no longer retrieve the mail while walking the dog or unpack groceries while listening to the answering machine. If tasks weren’t done singly--mindfully--panic would push its way up from her toes, would rush around her ears until she found herself in bed in the middle of the day, defeated.
It hadn't always been this way. These everyday motions used to be completed without thinking, sometimes in combinations of two or more. All was smooth, uncomplicated dailyness. Sure there were bumps, this was no perfect existence, but those bumps were slight and the sun was consistent and disturbances like what happened last Friday came nowhere nearby.
Maybe living alone exacerbated everything. The highs were even higher when buoyed by newfound independence, but the lows were bottomless with no one to pull her out.
20 January 2008
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