Restless morning, punctuated by dreams and wakefulness...

I am visiting my parents, rummaging in my old room. I see my desk, adorned with young-girl keepsakes. I reach past a small blackboard to dig into a closet, and knock the blackboard off its hook, so that it is held up only by my arm. I grip the board and move to re-hang it. On the back is a small wire loop. I at first think that it's a fish hook, and am amused at my younger self's resourcefulness. Then I see that it is actually an earring wire with a clasp, and I think, "That is so like me." The nostalgia makes me cry.

...

My parents are visiting, or I am there, and I'm trying to climb at the rock gym. Dad has built big mounds of my old possessions, having hauled them out of his house, expecting me to dispose of them. I'm crying in frustration, not wanting to go through this sifting and discarding all over again. Piles of stuff fill my living room.

...

My friend is introducing me to her young son. He is sitting--strapped into?--a small enclosure, like a stroller; I am crowded close, eye-to-eye with him; his mother hovers near by, increasing the crowded feeling. He is a small boy, not an infant but an invalid. He wears glasses in front of his intelligent eyes, but his arms are like sticks. He is frail. His skin is covered with burn scars or pustuled warts. I am repulsed, but I do not want to hurt him by letting him see my revulsion. He reaches out a small hand, covered in sores, and grasps mine. I glance at his mother's arms, to try to judge if this is contagious. She doesn't seem to be infected, but my thoughts are consumed with washing my hands. I let him continue his hold.