We drank gin and tonics in the bathtub —
on street corners.
In L.A. and New York, Chicago and
we carried gin in a ziplock bag. Someone told us to get a jar.
We woke up with heartburn and headaches;
yes it is Tuesday and tomorrow will be like today.
We paddled across Percy Priest;
and somebody told us: you can’t get lost if you only turn right.
You can always get lost.
We bought houses and learned how to make scallops.
We quit our jobs, and sometimes we found new ones.
We forgot the words to songs and learned the ones to others.
We traveled alone;
We traveled together.
We drank expensive beers and cheap wine and
We claimed to understand intersectionality.
We could not be broken.
We already were.
We spent money from jobs we hated on things we loved and we threw them out when the seasons changed.
We planted gardens and used the mint for cocktails.
We adopted dogs.
We lost dogs.
We lost friends.
We lost weight.
We read all the books you recommended.
We kept the sacraments;
We skipped church.
We didn’t see each other for years —
We didn’t need to.
We prayed behind closed doors painted by someone whose name we never learned.
We grew cranberries and found new bands and new bars.
We moved across the country.
We had miscarriages and margaritas.
We spent more money on the tonic water than the gin.
We turned thirty and nobody noticed (somebody noticed)
We tore down walls and put up fences and pulled down shades.
We found therapists and everybody went.
We made mistakes;
we thought we fixed them.
We went to hospitals and housewarmings.
We didn’t RSVP to baby showers.
We took shots of whiskey and ignored the people at the party we did not know.
We cut each other’s hair in the bathroom and we fought over karaoke.
We traveled the world but
we couldn’t always make it down the street.
We learned how to sweat and breathe and drink and ———— and cook and clean and fight and sleep and wake up and wonder: what will we be like next?