Why I Don’t Say Hello In the Grocery

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Micropsia, for one. Although, I question the syntax. It is a disorder of perception. Distance. An atmospheric swell where objects become remote, shrinking in size. Humans appear like mice, far away, scurrying. I am trapped in a glacial space, standing tall, holding the cart.

My child goes to the dentist. Five years without fluoridated water and I am still thinking about an email where someone casually asked me,

“How are you?”

My child is compliant. A needle in the gums. An hour in the chair. A molar extracted. A drill hums with a fixed drone and I only think of those that have been tortured with similar devices. Were they compliant? Victims with elbows bent and the salted dampness etching a map from the eye’s corner.

The tooth is put in a plastic box and my child chooses a purple balloon. The dog is afraid of balloons.