A lot of what i thought that i’d be a part of.

A dedication to friends and long years that should have felt short.

Twenty three and writhing with existential dread, a pandemic hot on our heels while understanding that it may never be too late or too soon to start knitting together the parts of ourselves and our dreams that we always wanted to become. I see us in the kitchen, and it’s a nice one. There is music playing but I’m not sure in this vision of us that the only music playing is coming from the speakers, I’m pretty sure that the red peppers are squealing as the oil burns hot, in the pan and the drops begin to dance and the vegetables are popping but we don’t care, because we are laughing and the water is running on intervals as the dishes get washed with a lazy abandon. 

Sometimes in the vision of us in the future, I’m not sure if it is the thick, middle of summer or the peak of winter but in either case, I’d like the kitchen to be full. Whether it is just two or twelve, I’ve learned in this period of separation and isolation that warm bodies are to be cherished and hugged, sat next to and passed bowls and serving spoons to. I have also learned of the intimacy of the written word, how much a couch can feel like a cradle and the words on the page like those of a parent, reading a bedtime story. We are often sold on the idea of self care rituals and boy, they have been saviors through two Decembers spent panicking about pandemics and whether we’ll ever fall in love. Ritual is beautiful for connection, to self of course, but where have the rituals of love and connection to others gone? I can’t wait for us, all of us, on the shoreline of a summer evening, running to the sea with a carefree abandon.