teach my class, come home, Catherine's at her workbench, and
though it's not easy, "I'm sorry," I say. "I was really depressed, I just
wanted some solace."
Catherine's still angry: "Maybe I'm depressed, too," she answers.
I'm stunned, then angry again. "What should I say?" I ask her.
"That I was first, that I was depressed first?"
Catherine turns her head away from me; then after a moment I
notice that her shoulders seem to be shaking a little. For a moment
I can't tell for sure what's going on: she's not saying anything, but
more of her body is shaking, and then it breaks through, her laughter,
she's laughing. I'm saved! Free!
I touch her, she leans back against me, laughing; her body against
me has such solidity now, I can feel the muscles in her shoulders,
the flat bones on her back moving under my hands—those "wings,"
we call them, as we should.
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