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On Saturday morning, my ringing cell phone wakes me up.
“We still on?” April wants to know.
“It’s seven o’clock. We said ten.”
“Ten it is. Dress in layers because we’re gonna sit there until you’re done.” She hangs up.
Three hours later, we meet in front of the four familiar letters. April has brought two folding chairs, a blanket, two bottles of water (one for each of us), and a thermos full of hot chocolate to share. I’ve brought myself and my step-journal, clutched tightly to my chest. We find a relatively quiet place where my sponsor immediately begins constructing an outdoor confessional while I try to think of plausible last-minute excuses for not doing this today.
I’m not ready.
I just relapsed.
There are too many people around.
There aren’t. In February, very few Philad
