It's familiar, dependable the actors never seem to change. Instead, I record the show - often accumulating a week's worth at a time - then sit down to watch stretches of it when I'm lonely or anxious or going through a bout of insomnia. And usually not in real time, because I find there's something depressing about sitting in front of a television in the middle of the day. Then I pressed play and there, on the screen - like an answer - was Erica Kane, wearing an orange jumpsuit, sitting in a solitary cell and talking to a ladybug.įor the past 20 years, I've watched "All My Children." Not every day not even every week. So I got out of bed and made a cup of tea, went downstairs, slipped a tape into our ancient VCR and rewound to some random point. Seeing angry guards carrying billy clubs and criminals with shaved heads and "I Love Mama" tattoos forcing my boy into unnatural positions over a cot.Īfter a few minutes of lying so taut I could practically levitate, I resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to be able to go back to sleep. Hearing the clang of tin cups against metal bars. Now, stranded in the darkest part of night and powerless to do anything till morning, I was envisioning him in an orange jumpsuit, eating lumpen food off a metal tray. One of my sons had landed in jail the night before, after a joy ride gone horribly awry. One night, not long ago, I awoke at 2 a.m., breathless, with the sensation of long icy fingers around my throat.
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