Silence replaces the steady click of the keys. Pain throbs in your shoulders and neck. Your eyes bulge and burn, itching to close and rest for a while. But you can’t sleep now. A grin skates across your face.
About sixteen years ago (ugh, really?), I was riding in the backseat of my mother’s silver sedan, nervously gnawing at my bottom lip while trying to breathe evenly. In the driver’s seat was my mother, dodging eye contact with me in the rearview mirror for fear she’d turn into a blubbery mess. My Aunt Karen sat in the passenger seat, turning on occasion with a bright but sympathetic smile that only made the looming threat of bile inch higher up my throat. The day I’d been dreading had finally arrived.