I’M IN the waiting room, again, while my mom chats with Jordan, my therapist, about every aspect of my life since he saw me last. I’m reading on my phone, one of the classics that was free to buy after copyright passed into the public domain. I like free books; they’re nice.
My mom emerges after a moment and gestures for me to go in. I do, sitting in the empty chair across from Jordan, my therapist, just as we do every meeting. We talk about college, but not much because I’m still looking, and he says that the things I’m saying sound very similar to things my mother says, about having a strong application and everything. I tell him it’s because I spend too much time with my mother. He laughs.
Next, I bring up Darwin and we talk a lot about progress and the little things that were harder to adapt to than I anticipated. I mention the things I found a way around, like wearing flats and boots with zippers or even sneakers without actual laces that need to be tied, which I needed because they were cute. Shoelaces are still daunting, which actually bothers me a lot, but I am assured that I will figure it out. There’s so much intricacy in the world, and a lot of it has to do with ten fingers instead of five. I envision it as a road, and I am in the middle now, having made progress from the beginning where I started when I woke up in the hospital and my hand was gone. That road has to do with change and progress, and like everyone keeps assuring me, I am moving forward and doing well. It’s easy enough to believe, and so I do because it’s easy.
We’re discussing the concept of forever when Jordan, my therapist, looks at the clock and tells me that we are out of time. So much for forever. He summarizes everything we’ve talked about and then calls my mom in to summarize everything we’ve talked about. She pays for the session, and then we are out the door.
We’re in the car, and my mom asks what we should do for dinner. Thinking back to switching it up, I suggest shrimp, because we really don’t have it enough. We go to the store and they fry some shrimp up and then we get french fries and flavored waters to go with it and head home. I’m excited because I really do love shrimp a fuckton. And, as an added bonus, it’s easy to eat, and there’s not a lot of cleanup, and that’s totally cool.
I spend the rest of my night writing more poetry, and I can’t help but feel super good, and that’s not something I feel too often these days, but it’s happening more and more, and I feel like I am resolving a story in my life, and it’s actually fun to think that way, to try to imagine life as a book. People should try it sometime. It’s strangely cathartic.