Her home looks exactly as I imagined it might, right down to the bucolia sprawling behind her windows. Hand sewn gingham curtains hung in the kitchen windows, a Buddhist tapestry as a table cloth. Her effortless bohemia flourishes in this far-flung cottage. She sends me home with a jar of her raspberry jam.
I know I have a hot truck and I'm not sure exactly how that became something about which I'd feel proud. This is a new type of vanity. For the first time in my life my car registers as some sort of statement about my aesthetic. I drive, apparently, an object worthy of covet. Others driving pickups smile their approval, women and the elderly look bewildered, teen boys stare.
I feel suddenly healed. I am uncomfortable knowing that something as artificial as my license status is inexorably linked to my mental stability and health, but there it is.