Dear Future,
Dear Future,
It’s spring now, the time of new beginnings, and all of a sudden, everyone is searching for a fresh start. The pollen hasn’t quite hit the air yet, so we are left to layer sweaters and go on walks that we might have considered cold in September, but now they seem balmy and welcome. New York City is awash with green buds and legal weed and protests for Gaza and the feeling that maybe you should start training for the 10k run in the fall. There are spring weddings to dress for and summer trips to plan. We’ve cracked open our windows and turned down our thermostats—it’s one of those rare magical times of year when you don’t have to pay anything to climatize your apartment.
It seems that everyone is in a state of thaw. They’ve shrugged off their winter jackets and are buying in-season vegetables. Suddenly, everyone is talking about moving on. The hypotheticals over drinks (where would you live if you weren’t here? Would you ever go back to school?) have dripped slowly into reality. Summer is coming again, and best-laid plans are thrown to the side in favor of social responsibility and financial irresponsibility. Somehow it’s been four years, and even though we won’t be walking across a stage I can tell that it’s time for graduation.
It seems like, not that long ago we were scrambling to build this infrastructure of friends, outings, and places. We would meet every week at the same bar, carving out normalcy, craving the routine. Book clubs, evening plans, favorite restaurants, and traditions became the small celebrations that decorated our lives. We drank wine or tea. We talked about books or movies or our love lives. Now, people are packing up, and moving on to a new city, a new school, a new relationship, a new wide open space.
These moves feel like an ocean wave or a beacon from some far away lighthouse that everyone else can see. We get together now, like I always hoped we would, and somehow we all still wonder what will be next. When I was in high school, I always took a ruler to other teen’s accomplishments. I measured their kisses, boyfriends, drinks, and parties against my own, and always found myself coming up short. I don’t want to be the last to do things, not because I’m particularly competitive, but because I’m afraid of being left behind.
I was on the phone with a friend today. She says she is afraid of getting into love, and I said I was afraid of getting out of it. It seems no matter what stage, love is a bath. While we were talking, I stubbed my toe so hard that it bled and locked myself out of my apartment.
I’m working on a new theory about stuffed animals. I’ve been thinking about the special one, the one that somehow becomes the king of the pile. They look down from their sacred spot on the bedside pillow at the other, cleaner, presentable toys, as, slowly but surely, they are loved into destruction. Their fur gets matted, their eyes tarnish, their insides fold up into some weird clump. They, unlike their compatriots, will not stand the test of time. They will not have second lives, will not see new places or phases, but instead will become unrecognizable, from love.
Their skin chafes, their bones ache, they absorb the hopes and tears and nightmares of five to ten years and it destroys them. They’ve given up the ability to be loved again by anyone, in order to receive the full intensity of adoration. Then, of course, they are left behind anyway. In a box, in a bag, at the back of the closet, or underneath the bed, doomed to be a fond memory in the shadow of a dark room.
I think it’s better to be needed, chosen, and destroyed than preserved in the safety of lukewarm love. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
