She sat atop a concrete wall that borders an unswerving marsh trail—Humpty Dumpty-style with her legs dangling over the edge. As she focused on a flurry of passing bougie mountain dogs—named for untouched terrain in northern Tuscany the owner made sure to note—she looked up. She was no longer alone. A woman, a handful of decades older than her, perched herself to the right—strategically where the corners of the wall met for support.
The young woman couldn’t help but wonder: What’s she doing out here alone? What brought her out on this cold night to stare at an unapologetically average strip of land? Is this the peace one finds with age? The pair sat in silence together, almost in a tangible timeline. One: young and confused in the center; the other, with poise and a sense of comfort to the far right. The older woman gazed off into the skyline, unfazed by the bustling trail below her. She was rooted. They were both missing something, but the woman to the right knew far more than the other in that moment.
And although the young woman couldn’t find it within herself to ask what brought her concrete companion to the seaside, she knew she was trying to guide her through the silence. And she also knew that someday she’d find herself in that corner—using the wall for support, and an ability to sit with the stillness, rather than question it. // happy lunar eclipse, y’all