There will be other lives.
There will be other lives for nervouse boys with sweaty plams, for bittersweat fumblings in the backseats of cars, for caps and gowns in royal blue and crimson, for mothers clasping pretty pearl necklaces around daughters’ unlined necks, for your full name to be read aloud in an auditorium, for brand-new suitcases transporting you to strange new lands.
And there will be other lives for unpaid debts, for one-night stands, for Prague and for Paris, for painful shoes with pointy toes, for indecisions and revisions.
And there will be other lives for fathers walking daughters down aisles.
And there will be other lives for sweet babies with skin like milk.
And there will be other lives for a man you don’t recognize, for a face in a mirror that is no longer yours, for funerals of intimates, for shrinking, for teeth that fall out, for hair on your chin, for forgetting everything. Everything.
Oh, there are so many lives. How we wish we could live them concurrently instead of one by one by one. We could select the best peices of each, stringing them together like a strand of pearls. But that’s not how it works. A human life is a beautiful mess.
Happieness is a choice, and when one is happy, time passes quickly.