I can see the way my bones and ligaments ripple when I make a fist. I’m made up of dots and lines and dry skin and it scares me. I’m a piece of paper wrinkling at the edges, easily cut, burnt, or ripped. My philosophy professor rattles on about how we are all the benign bomber while I roll my eyes and manipulate my flimsy limbs. Day in, day out, I’m reminded I’m the benign bomber.
I disagree. I don’t disagree at all. I’m sitting outside with Michaela and that is enough. “In two weeks we’ll fly again, perhaps a Chinese dinner then…”¹ Now good night suite, whatever state people are in, and the squeaky bathroom door, good night googly eyes from across the way, thanks for watching over me.
A new friend told me birth is a promise and death is its fulfillment. He said, “Birth is a promise…” yada yada yada, and I said, “Sandro, you may be right, but death is also a celebration, but the victory of time and we’re the losers.” And we looked at each other and smiled, and he puffed away on his cigarette that doesn’t make him feel anything anymore. And everything’s the fulfillment, I’m thinking to myself now. Should have flicked the cigarette right out of his hands. It was a lovely day after all. And there’s too much left to fulfill.

¹ A line from the author’s note of All the Bright Places by Jennifer Niven