In the checkout line at the food co-op this evening, after a trip to the movies, starting to bag my yogurt and pommellos, spinach and pasta, I suddenly found it difficult to breathe. The thought, as I battled dizziness and panic, veering ever closer to full-fledged hyperventilation as the unwitting checker scanned items and asked me for my member ID, that maybe I was channeling my emphysemic mother, taking into myself her laborious and heartwrenching doggedness to draw even slender wisps of oxygen into her damaged lungs and to dispel the carbon dioxide always wanting stubbornly to lodge there.

Another odd experience earlier, both in the bread aisle and near the vitamins: Staff members troubling to ask me if I needed help with anything, an uncommon solicitude at my bustling food co-op.

Do I exude brokenness? Is my grief that open and tangible?