|My favorite recent photo of her|
It wasn’t until I sat down with a British psychologist that I realized I’d been fooled. I saw it, the look on her face, when she asked me about the thirteen different psychotropic medications I had been prescribed over the last decade. [Insert enchanting British accent here] ‘According to this list of medications you have had nearly five different psychiatric diagnoses over the course of your life.’ All these years, all these meds, all these diagnoses and I had gotten nowhere. Half a lifetime of being legally ‘high’ had taken its toll. And, as we know, ‘extra baggage’ fees don’t come cheap.
Opening my inbox in London to find a message from my nonagenarian grandmother never ceased to make me smile. Here, in her livingroom, I leaned over and pressed the ipad’s button. The loading symbol appeared on the screen, and round and round it went until, finally, it went dark. The battery was dead. I looked up towards her clock, the antique brass one that held court on her mantle, the one I always found too emphatic as a child. It hadn’t struck a sound this entire time. It read twenty past eight. It was now two thirty. It had died, too.
It was out of ink.
I pushed the key more insistently, trying to at least write my name. I watched the long arm of the type hammer swing up to the paper with its expectant letter ‘H’. It stuck. Immovable. Oh, the irony! I was stuck, too. I stood, unyielding, like this letter ‘H’. I was caught, frozen in time, between two places. Where do I go? How do I get there? I’m the middleman, trying to broker a deal between my past and my future. And both sides drive a hard bargain.