I thought about
what I would think ten or twenty years from now. I would probably think that my
young life had been lovely. I would probably remember the giant wine glasses
and the white roses, the blonde wood floors and the high crown molding and the
Victorian windows without any curtains. I would remember the leaky shower and the
coupons for Thai food and the writing, the reading, and the drinking. I would
remember the dog and the washing machine. Why did it take so long for our
clothes to wash? I would remember that. I would remember the organized clutter, all
of the lost socks and old cook books and mismatched pairs of gloves, and the
heavy spells of uncertainty. Surely I would remember the uncertainty. I would
remember the solitude on nights when the snow would fall and the lights were
low, when the blue night and the white everything were married in perfect
unison together underneath the bright moon’s ever-approving eye. I would
remember the quiet.
I would remember
how I came to love the quiet.
