Clearing up after dinner tonight, Mom dropped the peppermill. I sat down on the floor to to pick up the strays rolling briskly around; they were near the trash can and it seemed the easiest way to get them.

Coming back up I misjudged distances and hit my head on the bottom of the table. Which should have been nothing.

Note that about a week ago I noticed with quite a bit of satisfaction mixed with relief that I seemed to have finally gotten over that last concussion.

It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it wasn’t a hard bump, it’s all psychosomatic, I told myself as my head started to feel pressure a few minutes after Anne’s son Grant swept up those peppercorns. I have no idea what happened to the ones that had been in my hand.

A little later, I asked my husband, Where’s John?

He looked at me and said, He went home. He said goodbye.

Oh. Did I say goodbye back?

You did.

Oh.

I had another question: did Anne change her shirt?

Anne overheard and moved across the room to me and said, Just different lighting.

No–did you change your shirt? Was it turquoise and navy stripes before?

No. Purple and darker purple, all day.

My brain insisted still that it had been turquoise and navy. Every time I look at the purples-striped shirt it knows this for a fact even though I know it’s wrong.

Yeah, I think we’re definitely starting concussion #8.