The developers had surrounded us. Penned us in and talked my sister into selling. 3 million for all the lots.
My mother was telling her through the aether that it was a fine price.
I was even going to get some outlay.
But I wandered the length of the property and sat at the window on the south side in my mother’s old bedroom.
I was distraught. Sick. In complete dread.
The number was too low. Other lots had sold for 1.6, in areas not nearly as prime as ours.
And I didn’t want to sell — not for all the wealth of the world.
But my sister was thrilled and I had no say.
I sat in front of the south window in the bedroom, in one of the old high back oak chairs and sobbed.
I woke to the sounds of the neighborhood under construction.
I was to walk at 5am today but had only slept two hours and now it was 9am.
The slight feelings of well being from yesterday gone.
I know I would feel better if I moved — but gravity has its hold and my brain is on high fry and the world is too bright and the air too warm and I want not to exist.
The sound of a small plane circling. Fanciful and ominous.
A bunker day.
A pill day.
A put off everything till tomorrow day, as the days seem not to matter anymore and I am a woman in a bad time of personal and global history.
Why bother with any reclaim, the fight against the all — physically and psychically deadening.
Why bother.
I have always wanted out.
