For three years I’ve had a bullet in my chest. Joan Didion wrote Do not whine. Do not complain. Work harder. Spend more time alone. Like any good disciple, I listened. Sometimes the bullet was soft, pink, gooey, barely there. Sometimes it burned blue with heat & I laid in bed wondering if the work would kill me. I did not whine when hunger sawed my body in half. I did not complain when I walked for hours, trying to get the sound of a sentence right. I bled politely all over West Virginia.
It is April. The work is done. Look, I have plucked the bullet from my body. Look, I am not alone. Look, I am alive. Purple wildflowers blooming everywhere. ]
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