It’s a May afternoon. You think about how smoking hurts your lungs and pick up a cigarette anyways. Then you remember the way your father used to laugh and feel chills down your arms. Remember him saying that you should quit in the new year. You catch a glimpse of yourself in window and see his eyes. What does any of this mean, anyways? Was it always supposed to be this sad? Is every new chapter a form of finality? Everyone suddenly drifts apart and builds their own houses and nothing can tear them down. Steel beams and bolted windows. No sunlight gets in. Caged doorframes. Make it feel like a prison. Hold themselves hostage in grief. “No visitors allowed” sloppily painted on the outside. We’ve protected ourselves the best way we know how, but forgot to let each other in. I’m not sure when that happened to us. But it feels alarming and my spirit echos for laughter with my family and long car rides to nowhere. Clumsily falling over each other’s limbs. A balancing act I used to know so well. Ignoring the warning signs begging me to rest. I really hate this time of year. -AMT ©️