10 Feet Away
The village I wanted isn't the one I have. She is ten feet away and also completely unreachable. Both things are true and neither one fixes the other. She is already jumping.
I write essays about the things I can't stop noticing. A bird trapped in an airport terminal. The hour before everyone else wakes up. What it costs to stay soft in a world that rewards armor, and what we owe each other when the systems we live inside are built to keep us small. The work lives in a few different rooms here. Some pieces are flagship essays I've been turning over for months. Others are field notes, letters to no one in particular, or short dispatches from the ordinary. Subscribe above and new writing will land in your inbox when it's ready. I'd rather show up well than show up often.
The village I wanted isn't the one I have. She is ten feet away and also completely unreachable. Both things are true and neither one fixes the other. She is already jumping.
They gave me kind. And they kept the results. I'm not bitter. I'm clear. There's a difference. Bitter looks backward with resentment. Clear looks at what happened and calls it what it was.
Noticing isn't the same as being offended. We've collapsed those two things and it's made everything louder and less honest. You can't name a thing anymore without someone assuming you're wounded by it.
He spread out photographs of my family and told me about his family while I looked at pictures of myself as a child. I'll be the stranger when I visit. I can live with that. I know where the coffee is.
I've been figuring it out on my own since before I was old enough to know that wasn't normal. I'm not angry. I'm something quieter than that, and more permanent.
We were never convenient. Convenient was never the point. The point was the apple. The point was the knock. Come back outside. The apples are ready.