“No I was just reading something about this,” T continued. “About how ‘unaddressed traumas’ are the major psychic factor in cases like this. ‘Uncontainable inflammation.’ Your body doesn’t know what to do with all that added trauma-stress and, I mean, it’s gotta go somewhere!”

“Goddamn bro. Too fkn relevant. I can’t even.”

T stayed silent. Caught my eye and grinned.

“So…what does one do?” I said, passing him back the piece I’d forgotten I was still holding.

“The only thing to do! Start addressing that shit. Forgiving yourself. Letting go. You call that therapist like I told you to?”

“I did.” And I actually had. “They initially said they had slots open, but then I said I had Medicaid and they said to call back in a month.”

“Those fuckers.”

Back inside, I looked for and found roomie bae, to see if she wanted to walk or Uber back soon. She was in back of the kitchen, nibbling on a shared snack plate with her boo, their faces right up next to each other’s.

“I was just looking for you!” she said when she saw me. “This is A,” indicating one of the new baes I’d met, but only distractedly. “She’s a manager for Philly Foodworks, and she was just saying that they need a CSA delivery driver. I was telling her about your van!”

“Philly Foodworks?” I said.

“Where autonomous bae used to manage—where C, you know C, still manages. The food bank part,” roomie bae said.

“That’s right.”

“They do composting, food banks, and CSA veggie distribution,” roomie bae continued. Before adding, “Y’know she’s who got V that composting gig, right?” referencing autonomous bae.

“Goddamn,” I said, wondering how I’d missed all that. “Fkn lit.”

“But so you have a van?” asked A.

I said I did.

“And it can carry a lotta boxes?”

I said it could.

“And you can carry boxes?”

I considered explaining how I’d just gotten more-or-less cleared to walk without my cane, that my van was technically stashed out back, and my driveway was a lil sketch but it should be all good, not to mention was filled with all sorts of crap, like could it even transport veggies like that, I’d have to clear it, air it out, which I should be able to do with my skin, my hip, but I mean—

Before not saying all that.

Before simply saying: “Oh hell yeah.”

“Amazing,” A said, lighting up. “When can you start?”

VI

Spring

Was I ill? Have I got well?

Who was my doctor? Can you tell?

Oh, my memory is rotten!

—NIETZSCHE

1

PRODUCE BRO

April 2019

I cleared out my van. Cleared the way for the veggies.

Moved her out the back, down my driveway ramp. To the front.