April 13th, 2022
I did the math.
If I live as long as my mom did, I already hit middle age at 29.
I think about hills. What it’s like to get to the top of one and then roll, fantastically, without fear, down the other side.
It’s what I should be doing. Hands up in the air, wild-eyed, breathless, focused only on the descent and the accelerating rise of the horizon around me.
But I feel new.
I feel like I’m putting on my shoes and looking up the side of a mountain with its peak obscured by the moon.
I’ve said before that time is a solid state, but it takes a shape no one can name. It’s not a ruler and it’s not ruled; we can pretend that seconds are concrete and objective but moments don’t last the same for everybody.
Me having a mid-life crisis at 29 makes sense, looking at it with these elderly eyes.
These are my favorite kind of words, the bolts of lightning that strike when nobody else is awake and the nighttime sky shares its darkness with the storm clouds, competing over who is more emo.
It’s me. I am more emo.
I got better before my mom said good bye but I wish I would have gotten better much sooner. I wish the amount of memories I have stained with guilt and wine was less.
During the intermission they whisper, “I hope the second act is better,” and so far I think it has been. The second act is what people tend to remember, anyway.
How it ended. What was resolved. What wasn’t. And if it left the audience wanting more.