Several months ago, on the back porch of my sister and brother in law’s town home in Philadelphia, I found a really special kind of quiet that doesn’t exist in most city spaces. The low sunlight stamped everything with orange and navy shadows and the wooden panels of the porch hunched inward to fit in between its two adjacent buildings. I was thinking about being twenty three, about feeling healthy and more well than I have been for a lot of my life. I felt especially young and comfortable within myself. And I realized that I was especially interested in the present moment, a place I usually don’t find myself in.
I am sentimental more often than not. For a lot of my life, I have walked backwards, gazing at the past with gratefulness and bewilderment while tripping over the ever-coming present. How can I look where I’m going without forgetting? I’m forgetting all of the time – does that mean it didn’t happen?