This isn’t limbo. The rain is pretty dripping from the roof, the bird feeder swaying, marking the gentle irregular passage of time. The cell phone is still haywire, despite a couple hours spent Thursday with customer service, listening to ads with a backgound Shaft-like digital beat. Amazon.com seems to think I owe them something a customer representative wrote a month ago to throw away. Their software rejects my careful explanation. No two professionals have even close to similar stories about how COBRA works. I have eight books by the bed, one not even started for CEUs, one I first read in high school, the rest all in progress. My sock monkey’s eyes are permanently skeptical, gazing at me with woven empathy. Nothing fits together--it’s why I put down one book and pick up another. Is this the one? Nothing is fixed. The rain is so pretty. No, this isn’t limbo. I am waiting for nothing. This is life. I am here.