On a clear morning, the gradual increase in sunlight lifts you out of sleep before you become conscious. On a cloudy morning, your alarm clips off the end of a dream about alarms and leaves you sifting through flashcards of reality and fiction. It is on these days that everything that is not in front of you feels equally far away: death, friends, and the bathroom.
Today is Thanksgiving Day and he is a three-hour commute away. You all haven’t spoken since Easter. You can’t remember how almost eight months flew by and escaped you. The light rain outside the window and the burden of making amends hold your feet to the floor. You check the Metro-North train schedule on your phone and buy a ticket anyway.
Time beats a numb forgiveness into you. You still show up for a friend after the fifth time they don’t show up for you on a rainy day; you don’t feel resentful anymore; you don’t feel anything; they don’t feel anything either. Today, you’ve made it from campus to Track 14 at 10 in the morning and you text him saying that you’ll be in Staten Island by 2, two months after you were supposed to respond.
He tells you that he’s excited to see you. His dog died two months ago, and you will realize when you ask to go on a walk after dinner that he has not taken a walk since the last time he walked his dog. He will realize that you left New Haven that morning and traveled three hours alone in the rain, straight to Thanksgiving dinner. He will drive you back, and you will see from his eyes what it meant to show up for every concert you ever played, no matter the weather.
(2025-02-27)
Zoe Pian 