Sometimes you do sit by the pool and look past it to the sections of light that dissect the property. And the trees and the grass below and the light and shade. Then the mountain beyond and then the clouds. And after that it’s unclear but vast and large. And you can be left there to stew by those you love because you had a few too many on a Monday holiday. But that’s all right. Because the truth is that living is understanding what happened from the beginning and realizing that that’s what everything is. So maybe you take another sip and remember being a child. Innocent, and the neighbor girl who said show you mine if you show me yours and your dad’s van and the time your mom said there was a big surprise for dinner, and it was cauliflower and you never forgot how much that angered you. But it’s like your dad always said. Life isn’t fair. Though maybe he was wrong, and life is fair. And maybe it’s okay but simply didn’t live up to your expectations. Maybe you aren’t special. Maybe your life won’t mean anything. Maybe you were supposed to be something you didn’t become. And now float endlessly on an unfamiliar path. It’s funny that we believe we will become anything at all. Or that anything will ever matter.
Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work has recently appeared in Hobart, Maudlin House, Wigleaf, and X-R-A-Y. His memoir “Bridges” is forthcoming from Bull City Press.