Gauze

August 16, 1983: These first few days back in San Francisco seem unreal, surreal. I feel that everything is being filtered through some sort of thick gauze, the kind doctors use to help heal wounds. But my wound isn´t healing. My father mustn´t know. I don´t want him to find out, especially after the conversation we had last night. He asked me lots of questions about San Vicente, lots more about my Tia. I think he must be identifying with her somehow in spite of their different backgrounds.