waiting for the New York express train, I realize I have been driving my life with my body. Trying somehow to carry my worries and sorrows and insecurities on my shoulders, as though I could wad up all the hurt and fear I’ve felt since John moved out, stuff it in a backpack, and hike through life with it. Every time I have fretted over Joe’s social life or lain awake listening like a hawk for Cori to make curfew or looked at my income and our bills and tried to figure out who won’t get paid, I have put that in the backpack and carried it around on my shoulders. They ache, and I haven’t even
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