Died in the wool

They lied. They said it would only take twenty-one days until it became my new normal. I’d learn to adjust, maybe even enjoy the change. I could’ve told them on day one that wasn’t going to happen. You can’t prepared yourself for something like that.

I did try. The first few days were horrible. So many sensations to deal with, to try to sort out. After a week the pain had eased a bit, but I couldn’t shake those feelings of irritation.

By the end of the third week, the sisters figured out I was allergic to my wool habit.

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I believe all good fiction includes an element of truth, and all good photography includes an element of fantasy. In this journal I hope to give voice to the stories swirling around in my head, and to capture the images I see through my camera’s lens.

15 thoughts on “Died in the wool

    1. When I was little, I would take a white T-shirt and pull it over my head so that it covered my hair then tell my mom. “I’m a nun.” Her Southern Baptist sensibilities were sorely tested.

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