People where I grew up lead hard fucking lives. This woman was a few grades below me. I always thought she was cute in school though we rarely spoke to one another and she was not a friend.

Now she looks decades older than I do. She’s 38 and looks 60.

My mom was the same way — drugging and drinking do that. By the time she was 40, she looked 65.

People age, of course. But that’s not natural aging; that’s leading a life of drinking, hopelessness and despair all leading to an early demise.

I probably would not like her or understand her much these days, but I still feel sorry that sort of life happened to her. Remembering her as an intelligent, convivial young woman that she once was, one who could not escape the gravitational well — the singular hell — that is life in places like Lake City inculpates the entire nation in the failure to value the lives and potential of its people.

Could’ve been me. I’m one lucky fucker.

Damn, Misty, I remember you standing up in creative writing class and reading your story, flushed and flummoxed from the attention — and me being surprised that it was actually pretty good.

Long road since then for both of us. Longer for you.