• Sixty-One

    26

    I dream I’m reading. It’s not like when I’m dreaming I’m running. I know where that comes from – the accident that deprived me of the ability to run. As a kid, I could just about outrun everybody – not in terms of speed (although I was quickish), but endurance. I could run and run and run, could push through fatigue, and feel like nothing could stop me. Driving me harder, further, and sometimes faster, was my stubbornness. When I was just eighteen or nineteen, sometimes I’d break into a sprint, like anxiety was a fuel I needed to burn off before it incinerated me. In sport, I was always…

  • Sixty-One

    19

    I wake to the sight of an old woman standing over me. She’s a crone, twisted and ancient and alien, a disruption of my reality that lasts a millisecond, but it’s a millisecond that stretches so tortuously over my surprise that I’m able to process so much. It’s seven years ago. I’ve been sent home from work for a few days because I have a bad cold and, after waking around my usual time, have stayed in bed and tried to catch up on sleep. But light’s busting in from the window, and the blinds aren’t that effective. Come the morning, I know about it. Opening my eyes, seeing her,…