Kinfolk

Every so often I fall asleep on my own arm. This is good and fine, normal even, until five or six hours pass and I wake up in a panic, aware of only three of my limbs. First things first, I try to move it. Inconceivable. With my functioning arm, I grab the heavy piece of flesh that is not receiving any signals from my brain and fling it fiercely across what feels to be the entire apartment. It’s still at my side. At a place where tingling meets burning, I feel the blood start to move like hundreds of tiny red spiders. I start to believe this state is permanent, and have already begun mourning my left arm.

It was the most unbearably perfect dream that was disrupted by the sudden awareness of my lifeless ghost-arm last night. Spain. Ocean view. Horizontal sun rays streaming through a kitchen window. The beginning of a dinner party, warm with conversation and intimacy.

It must have been because I was looking at these photos from the latest Kinfolk dinner in Philadelphia before falling asleep. These people are living my dream.