I’ve been masticated by life.
Chewed up by the gods of marriage and money and spit out from the stupid, beautiful city that I called home for 18 years.
I’ve crash-landed a few worlds away, in a town called, ironically, Oakland. A stone’s throw from Interstate 5, in an Oregon valley of ranches and moss-covered oaks. Population 927.
As I type there are frogs singing and a sheep crying from across the road.
On the table in the center of the mother-in-law’s apartment I currently call home there is a stack of papers; a new bank account, old bills from my previous life, and a Petition for Divorce sent to me by my husband’s lawyer.
I came here with nothing more than a few boxes of books and a chihuahua named Agnes. I live on the generosity of a cousin I’ve only just begun to know.
I lost touch from you, stuck in ice, spinning slowly out here in space, in a bunker that protected me from people and suicidal ideations. After two years of weekly appointments with my Ground Control I realized the bunker was to protect others from my rage.
I’m lost and broken and broken-hearted and the chihuahua has wandered away from me, drawn inexorably to the neighbor’s chicken coop. In a minute I’ll carry her back to this bunker and settle in for the night. Hello, good-night.