don't ever change

Visiting a place where I lived for thirty years feels strange, now.

Coming from the humid Gulf South, Seattle seems so clean, bursting with greenery and efficiency.

Gas is five dollars a gallon.

You don’t have to talk to anyone to do most things like order coffee or buy a $7.99 dress at the thrift store. Even so I talk to clerks and security guards and homeless people and feel gaudy and garrulous and slow.

Don’t ever change, a co-worker crows. You’ve always been just yourself.

You’re such an eccentric, a Southern friend comments, looking at my caftan-y dress and sneakers.

*

My sisters planned a week’s worth of events but I only made it to one-point-five-ish.

After rising at four a.m., flying for 4.5 hours, jumping a dead car battery and sitting in hot traffic for hours, we sat on a porch politely catching up and swatting flies off chunks of juicy watermelon.

We had an enjoyable but subdued Fourth, playing bocce with a restless eight year old, eating veggie dogs and s’mores, and lighting $150 worth of fireworks amid Gen Z diffidence (“that one was mid”).

Then a chaotic brunch, glorious hours on a houseboat and wistful goodbyes.

*

Relief and regret.

How I mostly feel these days.