In late July, I often get the urge to burn down my life. As the adult child of two addicts, I am attuned to the signs of impending meltdowns, including my own. I feel like I’m watching weather approaching over the water from inside a glass-walled room. Okay, it’s coming, I think, as though there’s nothing I can do about it. Lightning might strike soon. The signs are subtle but sentimental: a sudden overflow of poignancy while biking across a bridge, a restlessness for long drives on highways, a desire to drink white wine outdoors in the afternoon, a noncommittal gravitation toward Catholic churches.
You have reached your article limit
Sign up for a digital subscription and continue reading all new issues, plus our entire archives, for just $1.50/month.
Already a subscriber? Sign in
