Fear too, nipping at the heel. Fear bruising my arms with fingertips of smallness. Pressing down, glancing back. The receding figure of delight. Something I’ve coined anxious immobilization to pathologize freezing of the bones, clicking of the joints. A bad back. A case of hyper-kyphosis my PT called incipient widow’s hump. I thought that unkind. Depression, (Freud called it anger turned inward). So, anger then. Mounds of it. An artillery of anger aimed at young people, at old people, people who have too many children, who chew audibly, who stroll, who clip coupons or ask polite, probing questions. Seasonal depression (that’s just science) except I like winter when there could be wolves anywhere, when you can howl and howl and no one hears. Fatigue—how the days revolt! Think of the Sahara. I’ve never been, but my sister went on retreat in Morocco. Clay tagines, dune-surfing, endless loop of shopping malls. In Marrakech they said she was a real Berber woman, her long blonde hair snaking in the eager sun. Of course she rode a camel.