“It seems to me that I’ve been traveling in reverse.”
———Anne Tyler
——--Back When We Were Grownups

Periodically, my husband and I watch Monsters, Inc. Sully is my hero, an antidote to the nightmares I was born into, a big snuggly cure for the monsters in the closet on East 15th Street.

At a craft show, I met an artist who custom-painted designs on sneakers. Her table displayed tiny toddler sneakers painted with Disney characters. The Little Mermaid was hot at the time. After a lot of oohing and aahing, I asked if she could paint Sully for my grown-up feet.

I splurged on white leather Nikes and via texted pics from the artist, watched their transformation. She painted the shoes turquoise, Sully on the toes, grinning up at me.

Sully does cardio. I walk the track at the YMCA in my turquoise kicks. Even though I pull up the hood on my turquoise hoodie to fend off the draft, I can see the other walkers smile at my shoes. Sully makes everybody happy.

I needed more.

Sully guards the house. I discovered a plush Sully at Disney dot com, way too expensive. I didn’t care. My blue buddy now sits on a shelf by the front door, just daring any monster to even try to come through the coat closet. He’s the first thing I see in the morning when I wander downstairs bleary-eyed. Last thing I see before I go upstairs to bed.

Sully washes my car. I hold the equivalent of a season ticket to Kevin’s Car Wash, where I play out my OCD, as Bob Marley blasts on the overhead. Picture me q-tipping a.c. vents while busting senior citizen moves to “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright.”

Last year, the monsters from East 15th relocated to Kevin’s. Whenever I thought about washing my car, I panicked. I could not get myself to drive through that tunnel.

Where therapy, meditation, and dammit what’s wrong with me proved useless, Sully to the rescue.
Now, as the conveyor belt pulls the Honda through the monster-hiding car wash tunnel, Sully sits on my lap. We hold hands, our voices overtaken by a Jamaican lilt.

“…singin’ don’t worry, about a ting, ’cause every little ting….”

I came into the world cowering, as though I’d already suffered a lifetime of the terror awaiting me.
Thanks to Sully, I’ll depart the world younger than the day I was born.

I admire how basketball players fall. Splat on the belly and then slide across the floor, slick as a sled down a snowy hill. Or they thud onto their butts and pop up like it was part of a tumbling run. They leap right back into the game.

My husband and I checked into the Y for our usual cardio. When we turned the corner from the welcome desk, athletes in wheelchairs swirled around us and spilled out from the gymnasium doors. Guys and girls, men and women, from peewee league to NBA hopefuls, they were in town for a regional basketball tournament.

We climbed into the bleachers, along with other fans.

As in all endeavors, a star emerged, the kid with genius moves. He was fast, graceful, smart, and accurate. Both legs were missing from the hip down, his right arm amputated at the elbow. A seat belt strapped him into the chair. As he executed a series of intricate fakes, dribbling into position for a three-pointer, his chair rolled over. It pinned him underneath, wheels in the air, spinning. I couldn’t tell how it got worked out––I’m often six moves behind while watching a game––but he was upright and sinking a free throw before I could gasp. Before my respect finished its artless free fall into pity.

I admire how basketball players fall.

While I’m reading, a sentence will grab me and force me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life. ###

“Then she heard herself speak as if the voice was coming out of somebody else’s body, slow as tar drying.”
—Margaret Wilkerson Sexton
--A Kind of Freedom

At our reunion after years of cross-country phone calls, my best friend leaned toward me across the restaurant table. She was catching me up about being the live-in caregiver of her thousand-year-old mother, who had dementia. Days crammed with appointments with legal, medical, financial, and social work bureaucrats. She was pissed, and I've always been terrified by anybody's anger. Adult day care, abusive help, expensive help, and no help. She stabbed the air with her fork. Family who refused to help. I flinched. Her rage was a blast furnace. “And everybody's telling me to stop being mad.”
 
And my voice said. “Ignore. Everybody. You’re totally worn out. Keep your anger—it’s the only fuel you’ve got left.”

The flames died down. She settled back in her chair. “Thank you,” she said.

Then we gossiped about our college days.