Memoir / stroke / writing

The day I spoke to a cockroach.

“Go away.”

No, I am not mad. Yet.

These days, I head to work in a cab. I would sit on a ledge before dialling for one. That morning, I just laid the crutches when it appeared. I prayed quietly. And prayed. And prayed even harder.

Hearing my prayers, it crawled to me, spiny legs and all. Before my stroke, I would have gotten up and step on it. Scrunch hard for good measure. But now…now I spoke to it.

It scuttled away.

Not before brushing my shoe, nearly giving me another cardiac arrest. I sat there watching, heart twerking away. Helpless. Never in the history of me have I felt so small. Especially for a Roachzilla. What you cannot change in life, changes you. For life. And being able to tell the story of this life makes me happy. Very happy, in fact.

Maybe because my memoir is almost done.

Or maybe I am mad.

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