It was a moment of vulnerability that wasn't vulnerability. "Don't you have any guilty pleasures?" he asked, as I sat against the low leather passenger seat in the sportiest BMW I've ever ridden in. As we wove in and out of topics, into this one, I started feeling like a weird little punk, facing the camera, voice over, "I guess you're wondering how I got here..."

I drift.

I say, "I don't believe in guilty pleasures." Wait, am I telling the truth? He takes this as a bold statement, I clarify, "You don't feel guilt if you don't do things that make you feel guilty." Tautologically sound, I suppose. We were talking about dessert. We end up in a Wendy's drive through as he orders a Frosty, I decline to order. I wax poetic about how much I love vanilla, the triple vanilla from Cupcake Royale, the Double Fold at Salt and Straw. This flavor favor we share.

He remarks on the irony, at the two of us.

I chuckle in response.

Full of fight, I decided to cancel my work trip to Miami. I wanted the delicious Caribbean food, my feet in the sand, floating in warm water, but the reality would be drunk coworkers, capitalism, "how can we leverage AI first," and in a Red State, away from my kids, when we're a Nation in crisis. I've never felt less fit to be part of a Resistance, so wounded from these past few years, and struggling to just keep up the day-to-day, and yet, feel called to figure out how to do something. Unlike my 20's when I wasn't trained to avoid getting arrested at a protest, I've got better guides now. The very least I can do, during the general strike, is to focus on taking care of me and my family while I take the day off of work.

I just need to remember the taking care of me part.

I have a number of friends I've sought counsel from lately, and all of them interrupt me at some point to ask some version of "what do you want?" I spent so long shrinking and deferring in the face of viral risk and all the horrors of the increasingly debilitating cancer. A wise friend interrupted me from my list of Jon's things to take care of, and made me pick bed linens and wall colors instead. As much as I think I'll go for something like ‘Vintner’ or ‘Svelte’ — lovely purple hues — I keep coming back to ‘Mossy Bench.’ It's my new nickname. It's my new way of life. I am a Mossy Bench. Do you hear Messy Bitch or Bossy Wench? Maybe, but know that really I am the lichen and moss covered, grey wood bench, aging slats, with recently painted black metal arm arches, bolts securing the wood to the frame.

Hemp rope smells like a barnyard. This is something I did not expect.

Some time in early December, in a state of grief madness, losing ground and time I declared that my year post-Jon would be a Year of Whatever. I collided into a kind of fugue as I landed in the cold of NYC, embraced the gift of every unfamiliar, sparkling thing of being so outside of every obligation, ending up on the wrong train, wrong stop, that thrill of making it work, because in New York, you don't dare look lost. And you certainly don't… or maybe you certainly do… because the crazy thing is, some days you have choices that you never realized before.

So, ask me what I want, friends. The answer may surprise me more than it surprises you.

The drive home, my voice was a little rough from talking and laughing so much. I realized I've talked a lot. Not surprising, because I love to tell stories, and I've got enough true ones that they make for easy entertainment. The drive had started with a completely forgetable playlist, but on the way back ended up with some Spotify Indie list, finding a mutual appreciation for Radiohead in the first track. "Just not ‘The Bends,’" I said, "That's for when I'm feeling particularly sad." My finger traced the thin blue light trim on the inside of the passenger door.

Who am I, sitting in this car?

Who I've always been, but maybe that mask slipping off because who was it for?

Sometimes I'm not sure if the awkwardness I feel is autism or class, either way, I never learned that polish, and never had an interest in that flash.

Jon was a pragmatic influence. But also, I never would have ended up in Seattle — with him — if I had been similarly influenced by someone else at the time. Through many adventures and misadventures, I’ve been lucky. He was lucky. The adventure with Jon lasted more than two decades longer than I ever expected. The ‘luck field’ surrounded us both.

It’s interesting letting go of some of that pragmatism as I reacquaint myself to myself.

Two days on the calendar booked in April for me to get tattooed in the Hudson Valley. A month later, I’m aiming for an outdoor boudoir photo session somewhere among water and trees. I’ll order my bedroom linens, designs somewhere between Bog Witch and Forestcore. Surround myself with ornamental pillows covered in velvet. I’ll make my nest all my own. I’ll take the rope and tie it around all I adore to keep it anchored.

And maybe one day, when I stop to breathe and let the earth hold me, I won’t feel so sad.