I live—or feel like I’m living—in dozens, probably hundreds, of times on any given day. An old song comes on the radio and, suddenly, I’m the person I was when the song was popular. Lifting into downward dog in yoga class, I’m roller-skating in Central Park. Right now, typing, I’m ten, walking home from school. Which is real?


Right now, I’m sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, anxious for news that her Caesarian birth went okay. Now the nurse comes to say she’s here! We can see her!
Now all of us hurrying down the hospital corridor—Kate said, later, we sounded like a herd of elephants coming.
Now holding her for the first time, feeling the grip of her tiny fingers around mine.
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