Memory is a kind of fiction. It’s the story we tell ourselves, the one we decide is true because we want it to be true.
These stories are my memories of you, of us, in our 20 summers living together under the same roof. These stories are my truth.
Fact: By this point in our story, six years ago, I am raising our children and keeping the house almost entirely by myself.
Fiction: All of this is fine. We are doing fine.
Fact: You blacked out and totaled your car one afternoon, on the way to get the kids from school. The doctors run scores of tests and can’t find an underlying cause.
Fiction: We can make it six months with one car, one driver, until you are allowed to drive again.
Fact: This is fucking impossible.
Fiction: The American dream.
We are getting close, now. A few more stories, and we’ll be here.