Sometimes I worry that this life isn’t real.

I fear I’ll wake up tomorrow in a hospital bed and the suprised nurse will tell me I’ve been in a coma for the past year and a half. “What about the commune?” I’ll say. “What commune?” she’ll ask. “Where I milked the cows and fell in love and made tofu! I live there!” She’ll shake her head sadly, and explain that I was in a car accident in Maine two summers ago, and I’ve been on life support ever since. “No! I’ve been in Virginia! On a farm! With cows!” I’ll start to get hysterical, and the nurse will give me a shot that calms me down, and then the memories of the commune will start to get fuzzy. My parents will come in crying and hugging me, and I’ll try to tell them stories about the cows and traveling around the country to speak in college classes, but I can’t quite remember all the details, and they just nod sweetly, thankful that their daughter is alive. Wildly delusional, but alive.

Years later I’ll still have flashes of memories, brief images of the garden or the tofu hut, and I’ll go to therapy. I’ll fall in love, and one night while making love I’ll call out “Paxus” and we’ll stop and he’ll ask me who Paxus is, and I’ll say “I don’t know.”

I suppose this life is so far from what I ever considered possible, that sometimes I still don’t believe it’s possible. But it is, and here I am. (right?)