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I know it’s hormones. I know it’s sleep deprivation. I know it’s not rational. I know I should get a handle on myself.
On other days, I walk away from school drop-off or a social engagement, feeling as though I might be the cause of Espen’s slow demise into a world of depression and anxiety, that because of me, he’ll never return to life again.
Later, after our son is born, I will disintegrate in the crazy-making depletion that only new motherhood can induce.
Neem trees arch over the driveway forming a shade tunnel, like the summer oaks and maples of my childhood Minneapolis.
I imagine some people from other places can hardly conceive of a Midwestern man without a shotgun over his mantle, a closet full of blaze-orange jackets, a copy of Field and Stream next to the john.
There were many other reasons my parents decided to emigrate, not least of them my father’s pronounced contrarian streak.