Time

I live with a teenager and an 83-year-old.

The teenager is on the precipice of everything. The 83-year-old is constantly casting backwards into the stack of decades that make up a long, rich life. The teenager asks what it was like in the 1990s, when the world she lives in now was just coming online. The 83-year-old says "I remember when they built the highway across California." Because these people are my daughter and mother, respectively, I feel like I can inhabit both of their perspectives. Both the one I remember and one out on the horizon.

I feel timeless, minus the aches and uncorrected vision. I feel like I'm exactly who I have always been, but both less and more. I'm more the version of myself who believes that there are no good Republicans. I'm less the version of myself that can't sleep because I'm afraid of nuclear war. I am more the version who feels lucky and less the version who feels victimized by the universe.

I wouldn't say that I'm having the best time of my life, but I can confidently say that every minute here is miraculous.