My body has grown soft. Soft and brittle, hard to move, easy to bruise. Skin that shifts a little too freely over fat, pulled loose and drooping. My skin didn't toughen with age, but instead grew soft, like the peel on a rotted fruit.
Quarantine, mi quarantena, my "forty days" as I begin the next forty years, a day for a year, a story for a stain, a shoe for no one