Sometimes the five of us sit round the kitchen table strumming out guitars and drinking our drinks long after dinner. The best songs we’ve written have come about in these evenings, yet most get lost in the thick of loud stories, conversation, and the starts of another song. Not one of us there bothers to write any chords or lyrics down: remembering details never captures much.
I like lots of people all at once. Last night I watched an eyelash flutter down like a feather from my eyelid to the table, picked it up with the sweat from my finger and wished as my friends strummed and strummed that these nights would be everlasting in some form or another. I like lots of people at once because with so many of us together, knowing exactly what the others are up to that night, and having it known what I’m up to as well, it doesn’t feel as though the night existed in space on a planet that no one’s watching.
Now this morning, with all that music still ringing in my ears, I’m thinking my wish was wasted because I’ve always known in a way that things can’t be everlasting. This morning I feel old enough to admit it. And I’m hoping one day I’ll be old enough to not mind.
If I had one more fallen eyelash to wish upon, I’d hold it up to my lips and picture the five of us sitting round the kitchen table strumming our guitars and drinking our drinks; only this time with more wrinkles, less relatable stories, and maybe a few extra people. And I’d at first picture Nostalgia sitting, sickly sweet as she is, peering over us from her levitating throne, then watch as she sighs a little too softly for us to hear and rises from her chair, leaving us free to sing a new tune.