I’m sitting, working, drinking a beer. Listening to music and feeling so romantically content with my life. If I were less self-aware, I’d be tricked into thinking this feeling was one of nostalgia, of missing the way my life used to be.
I’m slightly buzzy, I’m pleased with how easily my words are flowing, and those music notes are hitting all the right spots inside me. Things aren’t as easy as they once were. I’m a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a hard worker. A good friend. I haven’t always been these things. The differences between my past and my present are vast and rough around the edges but somehow they still fit into my life.
Memory is a funny thing. It means well, but it’s a liar.
I am happy now.