32 Days in May: A Novel

by Betty Corrello

Now, months later, I realize maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s what being alive is. You don’t get to resurface, new. You break away; you start again; you molt old skin, altogether too tight and wrong, and while scars fade, they never disappear. At least not right away.

“In what disorder we lived, how many fragments of ourselves were scattered, as if to live were to explode into splinters.”