Today I became that person — first on the block to shovel my driveway. I woke up mad and sad, petulant and pouty. Sick of not breathing, tired of barely sleeping, weary of the snow and cold, I stomped into my boots, shoved my dirty hair under a purple hat and got to work. After clearing my own path, I braved slippery roads for tangerine juice, tea, and honey. I received neither a gold star nor a high five for my responsibility or respectability. I’ve been on my own for more than twenty years, yet today I felt, for a moment, like an honest-to-goodness adult.
Bridget was once married to a man from a Colombian family. She loved her husband deeply, and always assumed they’d someday have children. In Albuquerque, we stopped at a bookstore selling “Columbian” coffee. My friend gently pointed out that the coffee’s country of origin was spelled incorrectly: “My kids will be part-Colombian, and I want to make sure it’s spelled right.” We all giggled. Bridget and her husband divorced, and she never became a mom. I think of her maybe-children sometimes, and I am still strangely jealous of how much she cared for them.