Toad the Wet Sprocket was playing the day my mother dropped me off at UCSB. It was fall 1992. The summer was brutal. Hot in Poway, true, but that was honestly the least of it. I would later write and rewrite, struggling to make sense of the insensible, heal from the insensitive, find the higher themes in what was just genuinely beyond fucked up.
Today she is in rehab recovering from a fall. I will see her when I'm down in San Diego next weekend. Mixed feelings? You think?
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