One of my new-ish coworkers has a kid, which would be largely unremarkable except that he is 22, newly 23. He talks about buying her toys in the same breath he compares the rarity of different My Little Pony figurines; he’s in a complicated relationship with a married woman who isn’t her mother; he earnestly makes terrible and off-color jokes. I laugh at those sometimes, because I want to be nice and it comes easy. When he talks about his daughter, I still haven’t figured out how to react.
I am depressed too often these days. Or rather, moments of depression rise up and crest, and then they subside until the next one arrives. A cursory look through the archive of my writing will show that I have used this wave, this tide, this movement of water metaphor, time and time again. I come back to it, and the cycle of language continues on.
I once told Colin that if I were a Pokémon trainer, I’d definitely train fire types. He laughed, and said, No, you’re obsessed with the sea. Water all the way.
My boyfriend reads my writing, which usually doesn’t faze me, but sometimes it does. Like right now, as I write about the one who might’ve gotten away, except not, except who knows, because that person is away and so am I.