I sleep all day – rather, I hide in my room in order to avoid my parents. I’ve been told that the city’s storm sewers have hit capacity and that there is a likelihood that my boys and Matthew are stranded in the house. I wonder if they have made use of the canoe that is tucked in the rafters of the garage. It’s strange to me that I have had no word from them, but then, why would Matthew bother? The past is past, from his perspective. No point in going back. Not over his own history and certainly not over mine. It is women’s work to dwell.
And dwell I do. On the past, on this ancient Civil War story. It’s funny, the word dwell. Funny how it implies obsessive rumination but also living in a place, as if the two things are contiguous or even precisely the same thing. I’m aware of the extent
