Identity Theory

I lived two lives while your dark hair dragged over my shoulder.

Kristina Moriconi's What Becomes of a Body is a lyrical and fragmented exploration of how we recover after a serious physical trauma-hers specifically is about a car accident that took years to recover from and that still, in fragmented ways, can haunt her at times. The text is about reckoning with what was and accepting what is. It's about the ways in which trauma can rule our lives, yet we can find our own path towards healing as we gain voice for our experience.

I have a collection of empty that I keep in mason jars. They fill the pantry, crowd the counter, spread across the table and my dresser. Sometimes I light a candle beside the jar on my nightstand and watch the shadows flicker on the ceiling. I seem to look up a lot. Some evenings, I tuck a jar under each arm, go out back, and stare at the stars. When it's hot, I take a few jars from the refrigerator and slip them between the sheets.

His girlfriend put the post online: a cigarette and clown makeup, his full beard and thin frame dominating the photograph. He wore a sequined jacket over a mesh tank and novelty necklace; the bubblegum pink plastic charm dangled from a silver chain, spelling out the word "Daddy" in oversized cursive. I don't hold any resentment towards my partner, she wrote. I'm just happy I got to know him for as long as I did. I rode in his car once.

When we decided to move in together after only a few months of dating, Gavin was nervous. "My parents aren't going to be okay with it. They're really Catholic. My dad goes to church every day." It was a foreign concept to me, this idea that the religious commitment of people I barely knew would impact my life choices. It seemed like something that would happen to someone else. In my life, religion played no meaningful role.

It hurts to look at you. In its electronic naïveté, believing that of course all photos stored on it must contain fond memories, my iPhone has served up a slideshow. These photos, which I took in the first few months of our relationship, feature mostly you. You sitting across from me at a breakfast café, smiling at me, showcasing that dimple I loved to run my lips over. You twisting across a dance floor, your six-foot frame neither awkward nor gawky but perfectly aligned with the music.

Ask the average person to name a historian and chances are the answer will be "Howard Zinn." Zinn, author of the influential and best-selling A People's History of the United States, framed history as a continuing struggle between those at the top and a restless public fighting for social justice, economic dignity, personal freedom, and peace. How influential is Zinn?

On Thursday afternoon at half past two, I stop by my parents' butter-yellow farmhouse to take my mother to a doctor's appointment. A stuffed monkey sits in the back seat of the Chevy, forgotten by my niece. Mom sees it when I open the passenger door and her whole body electrifies like "Oooooh!" She greets the monkey with more enthusiasm than she musters up for me. Possibly because she has no idea who I am. She has no idea who the monkey is, either.

I broke his heart in Lion City. Our relationship was sudden and passionate, like a thunderstorm on Valentine's Day. He was a Gemini, I was a Leo; he was a Gregory, I was a Lola, and I thought that would be enough. On our six-week anniversary we made an impulsive decision and booked a holiday in Asia, embarking on the touristy novelties one does as we sailed and flew through Vietnam, Cambodia, Japan and anywhere else that would take us. It was in Singapore that a devastating conclusion crept upon me.

The year is half over.