Epiphany.

As I lift the heavy lawnmower into the trunk by myself again (not so confident this time, not as easy), I suddenly know where the mysterious long bruise on my leg came from.

Here's to not waiting for help. Here's to the bruises I can explain and the ones I can't. Here's to my headache. Here's to my misery, looming just overhead, like the stones in the doorway.

"Sometimes you just can't help who you love," she said to me as I peeled the potatoes. "And sometimes you just have to learn to love them from afar," she continued from the sink filled with dishes. The meal was meant to impress. The words to leave their mark.