One

When asked, I'll reply that I "used to write." I make no mention of having written a book. Having started a literary magazine. Having been on mast heads. Having presented at the Library of Congress. I make no mention of having traveled half way round the world to understand the identity of writing.

I'm struggling in the present tense to understand my own identity on the other side of disability, body horror, and grief. One year of surgery, medical traveling, and admissions later, who am I?

What is the life l've fought so hard to have? The countless times l've insisted to medical providers that there best wasn't enough, I wanted more, I wanted to live the life they took for granted? What for?

I took an impromptu trip to Brooklyn and Connecticut to see people I love, to know that I could. Both that I COULD because I was able, 1 made it accessible to me. And that I COULD because people love me. I've spent the entire trip imagining countless lives I could lead. It took Lindsay five minutes to convince me l'd be happier back in NYC. A type of homecoming to a new place you're making your home with the people who love you in the place that made you. I immediately start looking into ADA accessible housing, residencies, and grants for writers.

To move forward I need to stay where I am and see my life from all angles. One lifetime l imagine involves an installation of art entitled,

"Uncomfortable Angles: Life from the other side of disability." It involves movement, writing, texture, and sound. Another involves solo travel until I find a version of myself that hugs me back.

Another involves religious. Another, relief.

On the way back to Dee's from the beach I think,

"I've found my words." I imagine conversations until I have more words. I have conversations and write letters and listen. I create memories of things yet to happen. I hold rocks and shells and crystals in my hands.

I know the future I desire sits before me. Like figs on a tree or spring in a cherry tree. Harvesting takes work and I do so with feeding tubes, mobility aids, and life altering conditions. I know I am braver and stronger than most because I am able to look this in the eyes every morning and not give up. I compare horror stories with Steff about the ways in which we are failed by those around us for living. And yet.

We keep going.

I return to myself time and time again, each time returning closer to the truth.

More with less. Every time. Everything I am until it fits in the palm of a hand.

Each and every piece of the life l've built for 35 years blown apart by the hurricane of fortune.