The Postscript

I am now in San Miguel de Allende. No one comes to SMA, as folks call it, for spring break. It takes too long to get to, and it is too far from an ocean. This means that the people who are here have plenty of time to come and go and are not particularly interested in beaches. In other words, they are old.

Not all goals are quite this satisfying. Most goals involve a little dithering. The plan has to be altered. There is a step backward after two steps forward. There are obvious failures when, as optimistic as I try to be, I know I have hit a setback.

Peter sits about ten feet away (which is almost as far as a person can be from another person in this apartment). I have learned to write while he works on projects. (He is replacing the tips of his hiking poles right now. “Bang! Bang! Bang!”) He has grown accustomed to me sometimes talking to myself and sometimes talking to him and not being sure when—or if—he should pay attention.

My parents have known Andrew since before he had a driver’s license. But even knowing someone for almost 50 years does not prepare you for getting pilfered Door Dash on your 90th birthday.

My husband, Peter, is convinced our cat Felix was much younger because he was so small when we adopted him. And it’s true, he became much bigger and more muscular once he started getting regular nutrition. But Felix knew nothing about living in houses or living with people and, to be honest, we knew nothing about living with Felix.

I am sure that if a person wanted to, they could have a great time figuring out what ails my sister and me, but I don’t put too much stock in dreams, other than to note the emotions that come along with them. I have woken in terror over something that seems—upon waking—completely harmless. And then I have a dream where I am cheerfully disposing of a corpse.

Once I get to the airport, there are more annoyances. People walk slowly, three abreast, oblivious to the fact that they are not moving at the prevailing speed. Everyone takes too much carry-on luggage. People talk too loudly on their cell phones. Younger people sit on the floor and spread all their possessions around them, as if they plan to take up permanent residence in the airport waiting area.

I dig through my closet. I dig through my drawers. I try things on. I discard things. I start to feel emotional, wondering if I am a person who belongs in New York at all—a person who is incapable of dressing herself.

I know that eating too much sweet corn will make me feel bloated and too much squash will make me positively sick. But how does one resist at this time of year? And so, I don’t. I eat way too many vegetables, and then I go back the next week and get more.

Now my sister was laughing. My father looked skeptical, as he did with a lot of new information discovered on the internet and not otherwise verified. My mother just looked very surprised. I thought it was hilarious. But we were all looking at Katy in a new way.