Slowing down.
The cats stand on opposite sides of their treat toy. The larger cat uses his paw to flip one of three pink tubes upside down to dispense a treat. Sometimes, the treat falls to his side of the toy, and sometimes, the treats falls to the other side, which means the smaller cat gets a treat. The larger cat is larger because he is better at dispensing treats and because he has a genetic predisposition for muscle and bulk. The smaller cat is smaller because he kind of sucks at using the treat toy and because he has a genetic predisposition for scrawniness. Outside observers might say that these two cats look the same, but those outside observers would be wrong.
I’m slowing down to watch the cats because time has moved too fast recently. A week ago, it was July, but also a week ago, I was celebrating my eighteenth birthday in the band room, but also a week ago, in a very real sense, I was enjoying time with Nathan’s parents before they returned home to Asheville after the destruction of Hurricane Helene. The four of us sat on the patio of their Airbnb as they shared their plans for the week—fly into Charlotte, pick up supplies, help wherever possible. When they’d arrived for their visit with us a week prior, none of us had a clue that they would have to completely alter their return flight or that they’d spend their first day home looking for cases of water to bring back to their family and neighbors.
Perhaps time is linear, and events line up one after another, in chronological succession. But time doesn’t feel linear. In my brain, I am currently at the 2021 Balloon Fiesta, choking up as all of the burners of the balloons ignite simultaneously as the mountains begin to glow at sunrise. I am probably crying because of all that had been lost since 2020, because I hadn’t been to the Balloon Fiesta since the “beforetimes,” because I felt a singular moment of unity amidst despair and loss. In a week (in reality), the 2024 Balloon Fiesta will come to a close, and I cannot predict much else between now and then. The years have taught me to feel ambivalent about plans, about expectations, because they will change one way or another.
Slowing down.
I’m slowing down in order to reach out to my former self who resides here with me, right now, as I type on the computer. She is confident, shortsighted, nearsighted (always, always nearsighted), and tired. She doesn’t let anyone else drive her car (because she is smart), and she wears a full face of makeup (because she is hiding). I like thinking about her in this way because I can separate us a bit—she doesn’t know all the shit the world might throw at her, and I don’t have to dwell on some of the drama that she is obsessing over. As we sit together in this space, watching the two very different cats collect their evening treats, I’m grateful that she doesn’t know what the future holds. And, honestly, I’m grateful that I don’t know what comes next either. I do know that it’s nice to be here, right now, in this moment.
