I am afraid lately, and anxiety is pinging inside. I want so much to lean against something and melt. I want a much greater distance between truth and my big, fat lip.

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I drove down a rutted lakeside trail with my heart in my ears, eyes skipping across a tightly packed neighborhood of patios jammed against neighbors' sheds.

Where was the for sale sign?

I wondered if a vacant place would ever feel like home as odd headlight patterns danced on the walls at night. I remembered my apartment in Shelton, and just to test a theory one day I fired a spitball against the house next door.

The for sale sign tilted toward a low stone wall. Traffic buzzed nearby, and through a chain-link fence I saw the highway -- Route 84 slices through town, scarring rural countryside and often tossing its shadow in a thick band across summer picnics and kids in the swimming pool.

What the hell was I doing here anyway? I was a kid in mom's closet trying on high heels. I was an idiot.

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Moonlight coated dried leaves with a sterling shine along the path as I hurried inside. The day's warm sunlight died early and by rush hour a heavy moon stretched wide over the road, climbing.

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I think I need a glass of wine and time to think about this one. Somewhere some asshole is hoarding all the good answers and people like me sit chewing our fingers and making the best of second guesses.