My father used to brag about my broken hips, how they had healed so well nobody would guess I ever wore a brace.
"Karrie could leap over a treetop if she wanted to," he would say. "Hell, she doesn't even walk funny."
Except that I did.
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"Why do they call it breaking news?" I asked my cousin, as we curled under a blanket in the hospital lobby, waiting for word about our grandma. The local news flashed an urgent story about a car accident, and the flashing police lights felt like the headache behind my eyes. We were going on our tenth hour at the hospital.
"Because something has to break before it's news," she said. "Stories are made of broken things."
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more notes to come