Before you tell me that everything is connected, let me say this: I know. The political doom arrives with the new family at the doorstep, bearing a mirror you finally have the courage to look in. Everything has new light. Everyone has new dark. Should it be a surprise that you’re twenty plus two and your second friend in as many months is in a psychiatric ward? I would like to think it should. Because you’re terrified of endings you have already begun something and are now just wading through the overlap. With more speed, life could be one big overlap. With more rest, I wouldn’t call this life. Or life wouldn’t answer. The house is just big enough to pretend you couldn’t hear. I have been spending time with children and I haven’t sucked in my stomach. I have made room to remember the big stuff, like bedtime stories and wonder worlds. I am desperate to not be in my brain. I am desperate to be in my body. I am in boxes. I am on a plane. I am on a boat. This is a different crust to the world. I make childhood faces. This is a year I grow old.
Maggie Woodruff is a future anthropologist and lawyer and poet. She is a present student and organizer and weirdo. She likes plastic discs and family and tall trees. She doesn’t have heroes but she does have friends, which are better. Ask her what she is listening to. Send her a mug. She will be eternally grateful.