Myth, Personal Associations with Misty Urban
The land that raised us, she and I, was scraped free of myth, tilled and squared and poisoned until there were no more clouds of birds blotting the sky, no sandhill cranes swimming prairie seas.
The land that raised us, she and I, was scraped free of myth, tilled and squared and poisoned until there were no more clouds of birds blotting the sky, no sandhill cranes swimming prairie seas.
The woman in my closet is watching me again. Flash of white through the folded door, crisp linen tea dress, fascinator, prim buttoned gloves. I laugh. That was never me.
My husband told me to choose the restaurant though we’d never been to this town. He drove past every place I named and then, at the edge of civilization, jerked the car into the parking lot of a chain restaurant I hate because the cajun chicken I ate at one made me sick for days.
They’re called mandibular tori, and yes, since you’re asking, they do hurt, a little, often, not in a take-me-to-the-dentist-immediately way but in an ongoing, low-grade, what-can-you-do-but-learn-to-live-with-it kind of way.