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He asked me how old I was. “42,” I said. And then he pandered on as someone does when they want something from you… I don’t know why that stuck in my head, but I can remember so clearly how I felt in that moment’s version of myself. I was still up there floating in the clouds somewhere, all full of hope. I’d taken the blow that the voice I’d been cloistered with for over a decade had not been a kind one, had claimed to love me but not given me that love. I’d been reminded of how kindness felt. Been lifted up after so many years of being knocked down I’d just stayed there and gotten used to the view. It was like breathing fresh air again. Opening blinds on a sunny morning. I didn’t know yet how vulnerable that made me. Didn’t realize those clouds weren’t actually solid. Wouldn’t hold me. There was a reason I’d been knocked down and held there for so long. Because I’d allowed it. Hadn’t done the work. 42 was beautiful but couldn’t possibly last. The air’s too thin up there. There is no reality without a little gravity. It would come. Another blow, but a gentler one. A silly rabbit kind of recognition. Work to be done. And when the work feels tiresome, I remember 42, a memory of light, of fresh air. A reminder of worth and warmth and kindness. Perhaps I had to fly too high so I would never sink quite so low again. Sounds like me.