How odd it is to fear I am a hypochondriac when I take routine care of myself, when I investigate a concerning symptom, when I hear the thing that goes bump in the night and seek to find out why, why, why.
How odd it is to have been mothered by a woman unable to care for herself, a woman who flung away her flashlight into the deepest shadows.
How odd it is to feel guilty, full of betrayal, when I shine my torch into common darkness.
a m o r e t 