aqilokoq: softly falling snow
Part of me just assumed I would get old and die a grandmother, a great-grandmother. I would be old and small and round, and bake cookies and write poetry and insist upon certain grammar rules. I would magically have a house by the sea, and I would die in a magically white bedroom, with the white linen curtains blowing in the gentle wind, and the sound of the waves breaking on the sand. I wouldn't be worried about climate change and no one with the last name Trump would be president. Before I got sick, I tried to think my worries into protection--I bet you do this, too. If I could conceive of it, that would somehow protect me and my children from "it" actually happening. If one of the kids was late coming home in high school, I would lie in the dark and imagine how their inevitable death by [drunk driver, serial killer, choking on a large piece of apple (I can't quite lose my anxiety about this one, despite the fact that my youngest are now certainly old enough