<sup>The night crowded the day and soon, the outside world was void of color, the only sign of life a faint glow from the house on the hill, trees curling and reaching and swaying every time another gust of howling wind rolled through the valley and down to the water that crested into small white peaks, the sailboats lapping against the restless waves.

With my husband asleep in the other room, I don’t feel alone, though the pangs of loneliness could very well trick me into believing otherwise, wishing with every fiber of my being that there was a way to send me back to before, before I was so aware of time and how it always seems to be in short supply.

To write with the goal of being understood by all, I worry, is to write by trying to please everyone, and is it really possible to please everyone? No, certainly not. So, when considering 'being misunderstood' as one of my greatest fears (when it comes to writing), I have found myself backed into a corner, the only way out being: to write more of what I want to write, not what my fear tells me I should.</sup>

<sup>And believe me, there's nothing more I'd love than to give way less fucks than I currently do. To not care so much about what people think of me, think of my writing, of what I do or don’t do, say or don’t say. And yet, many fucks are still given all of the time, and I'd really rather not add more fuel to the fire by overthinking my tendency to overthink every teeny tiny detail — details that don’t matter, not really, and especially not right now.

It’s now a day later and I'm in my car on the far left side of the ferry, behind rows of UPS and FedEx drivers. From where I sit, I see red noses, layered jackets, and ice-cold wind whipping hair across faces, knowing that just 25-minutes from here, there are pink blossoms blooming on the almond tree in front of my parent’s house, and clusters of bright yellow daffodils painting the field where the geese and the deer mingle. Where the air smells of salt and freshly cut grass.

When I drive off of the ferry, I follow the rest of the cars up the hill, noticing how the light doesn't fade from the sky as quickly as it did last week. At how many people are out for an evening walk. At how easily I have slipped from one season to the next.

As a self-proclaimed crier, at first I was surprised by how infrequently the tears came, certain this was some kind of malfunction, a blatant human-error in need of fixing. Now, somewhat cautiously, I believe it to be my own unique response to The Worst News I’ve Ever (Personally) Received, resulting in a painfully clear insight into the inevitability of death. Of a fate not one of us will escape, arriving too soon.

It’s only after I've gone round and turned off all of the lights, that the orchestra of frogs begin their nightly performance, eventually reaching a pitch that makes its way through the walls of our home and into our kitchen, where I’ve paused to listen — paused to wait for the kettle to boil, for my shoulders to relax, for this new reality to settle in, and for the tears brimming my eyes to finally fall, as I begin to set down some of the mental armor I’d been carrying around all day.

As it turns out, the armor is actually quite helpful. It is how I’m able to stay present under the immeasurable importance of any given moment: the light coming through the dirty window while we make scrambled eggs for lunch; the shared fondness for dark humor; the early spring flowers in the green vase on the table; the laughter as Pip the cat does something incredibly cute; the daydreaming of traveling to far off places; the talk of what glazes to use on our next piece of pottery — all continued reminders that time does not stop and wait for us to catch up, it only propels itself forward, impatiently calling back to say, “c’mon, keep up! We really don’t have all day!”

So, when considering the cards that have already been dealt, I’ll take whatever sliver(s) of time I can get; whether it’s an exact timeline or a rough estimate of, there's an odd sort of comfort found in knowing exactly where, how, and to whom I’d like to give my attention.</sup>

^{Take care,
Chloe}

^{PS. this essay was inspired by the artist Ken Pomeroy, in particular, Days Getting Darker, a song from their most recent album, Cruel Joke}