My underarms were moist, the back of my neck clammy. The shower I took in my sister’s dorm was for naught, failing to prevent the pervasive body odor that betrayed me. It was an early March morning in Bloomington, the humidity transforming my shoulder-length hair into a mop of brown frizz, the surface of my face red-lumped and shining like a vinyl rain slicker. I meandered across the quad.

Questioning
Prayers among hilltop oak and elm seek clarity from God. Do answers lie within my silent soul? Eyes spill tears at headlines from Gaza, Ukraine and Iran. Ideals no longer shine in leaders save for those with little sway. Might once-joyful children’s voices haunt men who order other men to kill? Could retribution’s prospect put their plans in disarray?

When I asked you why we did not happen, you told me that I was too romantic for you, that my chaos did not fit into the orderly compartments in your life.

Even now, when we talk sometimes – as friends – friends who laugh about what could have been, when you listen to me with more patience and interest than ever, I am surprised by how often I filter my stories of joy.

Youth often finds itself a casualty of unawareness. In some instances, where there might be gratitude for preadult ignorance, being poor isn’t fun, at any age. I grew up privileged. Some may find it more difficult to embrace having nothing, after having grown up without financial worries. Finding yourself without savings as a senior citizen, however, really blows.