you find it romantic, still. the light in your apartment scraping up the wall in a slow yellow ripple. her fingerprints on the mirror. the spider in the bathtub you google the name of. a quesadilla you manage to perfectly cut.

the unwitnessed and private beauty of the mundane. she stands over the stove and makes you a perfect salsa with peppers from her garden; only the two of you will get to share it. you have finally managed to organize one of your closets. the art supply you need is not only in stock - it's buy-one get-one.

you are delighted to find the cord you need in the first place you start looking - you thank your past self for a moment; and then that moment opens up. when you were a kid, you almost didn't get here. you were terrified of the possibility of an endless and terrible numb; a life made grey and vapid, a spirit made dull. how close you came to that precipice. how often it still calls to you; violent and unresting.

and yet here you are, and old now; older than you ever anticipated - just a normal adult. you are managing to stay somewhat on top of the dishes. today it smells like fall. your dog made friends with another dog. you had a nice conversation with a stranger; you got your grocery shopping done. the tiny liminal moments of your life; apple cider donuts and jazz music and humming along. and here you are, thanking your past self.