It’s not that I don’t want to be, satisfied that is, it’s just my default to not be. It could be better. Always. I like the books very much, particularly the one about Kierkegaard. I want to do them justice. To be kind but also to offer a reasoned, incisive response. Is it good enough? Is it ever good enough? Am I ever good enough?
Look at me there. What a sweetie. And that smile. That is me trying to hard, on my scooter at my grandmother’s house. Though she never wanted us to call her that. Just her Christian name. Was it vanity? Or a reneging of the role?
I want to live without judging. To just be at peace with myself and others. Let it be what it is. It is a lifetime’s work, that.
What a gentle girl. So earnest. Her mother was bright, full of life. And so pleased to be here, in that house. It’s got four floors and four cafetieres, she said. Imagine that? I like such meetings that occur in-between all my fretting over time.
It’s almost done. I haven’t said all I wanted to say, but I tried. Sometimes it’s just time to finish. There is nothing else to be done but close. Finish it. Left hanging? Maybe. There is space in that, room to improve, to become. Better.
