Open Letter

It's Friday night. I could go for a walk or stay here in my apartment among a garden of philodendron and pothos. I could spend time with my partner. He lives nearby; just three blocks away. Will I visit a friend this weekend who has just had his first child?

Somewhere, my other friends with children are in the full sprint through the middle of life: work, errands, love, burnout. Tonight they’re planning, prepping dinner, or ordering in for a family movie night, then bedtime stories. No time to catch a breath. I remember when my nieces were young. With my sister, they used to have movie nights on Fridays. My oldest niece narrating and commentating throughout. My youngest niece waiting for, then demanding silence. They are grown now, or nearly. The nights will grow quieter too.

I'm on the steps at the side of my dorm building. It's December 2003. The stars are out as I smoke a joint and blow smoke rings. I return to a dorm room lit only by two monitors. My roommate's, lit by World of Warcraft, and my own, by stories of war and a changing country.

A notification breaks the memory. The world is moving faster than I am now. Still, here I am, 42 years old. It's Friday night and I'm lightly burdened, drifting calmly in midlife. Well, not calmly, not exactly. Is my sister in Washington ok? The weight isn't what it once was. This is just the end of a week in the middle of a life.

On long hikes, the middle stretch is often the most difficult. Some walk ahead, others fall back. Conversations, muted, continue. Still, I hear the sound of my breath and my own steps. They pace me.