A Season of Grief
On summertime sadness, insomnia and the Asian workers that heal us.
A few weeks ago I looked up from my computer to see a baby racoon stumbling in my patio. Limping with an injured leg and batting the flies away from its battered, festering face, it staggered, disoriented, until it fell from a ledge, landing haphazardly, lacking the energy to brace for the fall. Within the hour, it was curled up on my doorstep, seemingly dead.
Yesterday was the anniversary of the day I found my mom unconscious on this same plot of land, one I’m increasingly convinced attracts death. Ever since, the summer is has maintained an eerie air. The day I found her, it was the perfect summer day: bright blue skies, mid-twenties, a light breeze. The moments leading up to coming home that day appear in my memory like twisted scenes from a childhood horror movie; like evil clowns or demented dolls—deceptively sweet and wholesome. The days and weeks after her death carried the same dissonance. I walked around my Pleasantville neighbourhood with mild PTSD; passing golden retrievers …