August, 2022. I have rented a cottage in Branford, Connecticut, to take time off from taking time off (the writer’s strenuous life), and to recover from a wound in my back. Nothing dramatic or ostentatious, but enough to make me feel the pull on my skin when I turn the wrong way. I have been known to turn the wrong way. This time the penalties are minor.
My wound looks like the Philippines, the main island of the archipelago. I don’t know how it happened. It’s just one more—the wound, that is. We are a compendium of wounds, after all, little histories of breaks, cuts, abrasions, lacerations, contusions. Add to those twice the number of inner wounds to the ego, to the heart. The invisible wounds that leave invisible scars.
