Getting picked up from recovery by your family after spending fifty-seven days rewiring your brain and learning how to human is discovering your heart still has room to grow. It's realizing they've spent fifty-seven days becoming different versions of themselves as well. Fifty-seven mornings slowly increasing the volume of conversation at breakfast. Fifty-seven bedtimes hoping day fifty-eight won't be as awkward as you've spun up in your head.
Homeward coffee orders have changed; it's a new season afterall. Your little sister learned new words, made new friends, formed crushes on boys at school. Your older sister is planning a doomed wedding for a short marriage for the sake of the kids. Your brother moved away with his band mates, hopefully to visit during holidays.
The road you're speeding along leads to a place that both made and unmade you because in the strangest turn of events, you've been willed a house with vents in the floors whose cooler maintenance and smoke soaked wall paper you already know. A front yard that keeps not only the ghosts you made, it keeps the ghosts of mother’s who'd claimed that dirt well before yours.
My name is Mary Anne Lee and this is only the beginning.
