I inadvertently noticed there were people standing on the pier for some kind of event. It was already evening, and the lights were warming up to that golden hue that flatters everyone.
I wasn’t there, but I saw it online.
And somewhere between that gentle light, the music, a voice, not quite spoken, crept in:
–“Don’t you feel bad that you can’t do things like that anymore?”
A pointed remark, for sure but yet not cruel, a bit smug.
“Wouldn’t you love to be out there, swaying to the rhythm, that cool breeze on your face?”
And, for longer than I’d like to admit, I agreed.
For a second, I didn’t want to be where I was. I didn’t want to be the person I’ve become, the one who now needs help getting up, whose tendency now is to say “not today” more often than “maybe later.”
But the voice didn’t linger.
Because a deeper one rose, quietly.
“Even if I could go, who would I be standing there for? There was a time I faked it, and after a couple shots of whisky I could wear the usual veneer of charm. If I stayed out long enough I could pretend I was part of something.”
But now?
Now I stay home.
Now I notice when my cats blink slowly at me.
Now I write things down even if no one reads them.
Now I tell the truth.
Even when it makes me ache.
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