July 9th, 1948

Today was our family portrait day. I love my dear Chet to death, but he can be such a curmudgeon. No sense of humour! He says to me today as we’re walking into our neighbor Mr. Garraghty’s to have our picture taken, “Honey I don’t know if I am who I have been. I feel separated from who I even could be. In the last two weeks, I have been haunted by the ever-present memory of waking up and finding you wholly unrecognizable. The things in our house felt incongruous yet whole at the same time, like someone had taken them apart in the night and put them back together before anyone awoke, and I had just happened to notice the dried glue holding it all together. I think maybe I already died, and God is punishing me by sending me back with only half the fact of it. I can’t go inside, Edna. I can’t be in a neat house that’s only glued together. I want to sit in the sand of the Chesapeake like I did when I was a boy. I need to be away from all of this.”

And so I looked at him with my eyes rolling to Timbuktu and said to him, trying not to sound too snappy, “Chet!” I said, “Don’t be such a hardo bitch! Pussyboy! Bite my gargantuan clit you pathetic fucking poser.”

-Edna

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