A long time ago tomorrow morning.

Your life is about to change forever, he said, but I don't think this is what he meant. We started the boy on steroids, two full rotations rubbed daily inside his earflap for the rest of his little life. But of course the roids suppressed his immune system and for a week now he's been wheezing and gasping and struggling for breath, and we've all been worried and panicked and unsure of what's to come. He's a trooper though, my kid, and though he may not want to leave the safety of the floor he's been sitting at my feet wherever I sit, gasping and wheezing and struggling for breath. He's supposed to get better they think.

But that's what they said about my kid sister, too. She's now gotten to the point where she's started lying about her age, and worse, lying about mine. "Happy 29th birthday!" she said, as though 29 is somehow better or more magical or in any way, shape, or form different than any age save retirement. "I'm 34," I replied flatly, only to be chastised with a "I'm pretty sure she knows how old you are." But I no longer have patience enough to even joke about something so monumentally stereotypical and dumb. Heck, I can't even joke about stuff that's funny anymore. I'd say I'm turning into my mother, but she lies about her age too.

I've heard that burns are the most excruciating injury one can sustain, and I know you're probably thinking that I'm going to start in on the agony of family or heartbreak but there you are wrong. Burns are, in fact, a whole lot more painful. The blister on my finger barely covers the knuckle but I can feel the nerves crackle up through my elbone, every muscle twitch a fire anew, every drop of water or gust of wind a torture. It's thrown in sharp relief the absurdity of almost dying so painlessly, of continuously living an unlucky breath away when worst I ever feel is really, really tired. But sleep is the cousin of death; at least that's what Nas says. ANYWAY, family I can mostly avoid.

There's a huge mansion next block over that's been recently renovated, and one of the many ancient treasures found in reconstruction was a receipt left by one Frederick Douglass for a pair of trousers. My own house was built in 1900 and in the last week we've had replaced almost a full set of windows and a rickety back door (I've also read up on plimsolls, the Aquarius Reef Base, Chile's Very Large Telescope, and hepatopancreases). On deck is a historic reconstruction of our facade, stripping away the peeling white paint to uncover the brick below, and, coincidentally, a new deck. We'll find no cool artifacts (trouser-related or not) I'm sure, but still we're forging ahead bit by bit. Of all the ridiculous things in the whole wide world I'm replacing door knobs and hinges one by one, and finalizing plans for the first floor staircase that may involve a giraffe.

Your life is about to change forever, he said. And yeah, maybe this is true. Still, I think that's a pretty bold claim for a window company to make.