“Is this permanent?” the clerk at the BMV asked.
I said something like, “Yes, yes, it’s chronic, I’ve had it since birth. It’s permanent.”
No one asked why it had taken me over 41 years to get the parking permit. Nor did I want them to.
She handed over the little blue hanger without even a blink. No money was exchanged. Only my pride was handed over, my reluctance to admit I could use the help this little piece of plastic provides. God help me, why was I here again?