After my lips severely
chapped up yesterday afternoon, I searched through my bag and jacket pockets
for a quick fix. Nothing turned up. All of my tubes and containers were in my
apartment, avenues away. I flew into a CVS, held one package of lip treatment
in both of my hands, stared at it for half a minute, and reluctantly headed toward
the checkout line.
I didn’t do it. I couldn’t spend
several dollars on a product I already have piles of at home. So my mouth stayed
miserable.
Sometimes I forget that I
don’t live paycheck to paycheck anymore. And that my scary-broke years are over.
I used to tailor the hems and waistbands of my pants with binder clips from my
office.
A couple of years ago, I collaborated
with a guy who first came to this country as an undocumented resident. He’s
now a U.S. citizen and noted that he often finds himself going through life the
way he had during those undocumented days, constantly looking over his shoulder,
assuming he’s still in danger, unable to let go of the creative survival
instincts, no matter how much time has passed.