We filled out a bunch of forms and then had brand-new bank accounts, complete with debit cards that would arrive in seven to ten days.
The woman gave us five temporary checks to use until our real ones arrived,
encouraged us not to make any major purchases for at least six months “while you learn to live with this windfall,”
and then started talking about the places we could put the money—college savings accounts or mutual funds or bonds or stocks—
and I was trying to pay attention to her, but the problem was I wasn’t really in the bank.
I was inside my head, the torrent of thoughts screaming that I had sealed my fate by not changing the Band-Aid for over a day,
that it was too late, and now I could feel the heat and soreness in my fingertip,
and you know it’s real once you can physically feel it, because the senses can’t lie.
Or can they? I thought, It’s happening, the it too terrifying and vast to name with anything but a pronoun.
Driving to Daisy’s apartment complex, I kept forgetting why I was stopped at a stoplight,
and then I’d let off Harold’s brake only to look up and notice, oh, right. The light is red.
You hear a lot about the benefits of insanity or whatever—like, Dr. Karen Singh had once told me this Edgar Allan Poe quote:
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