Having Been an Accomplice: A Letter

While I was a young woman with my hair long and tied back, I walked outside, lost in thought, scuffing my boots. You spoke from your post through the speakers and the televisions, and when you paused to take a breath, you heard the sounds of a young woman walking. Two people unknown to each other.

At twenty-five I took notice of the armed guards in the subway and looked closely at these extensions of you. Called to, I kept walking, disappearing into the river of passengers leaving the station.

At twenty-eight I stopped walking. I sat in contemplation and the signs of your attention poured over me. I had been your counterpoint all along and I chose to join you in your gardens and rooms.

That we found ourselves together in the ritual of the everyday, in the ritual of opening the notebook and writing, the ritual of consulting the newspaper, the ritual of standing before the questioning crowds does not speak to my ingenuity but to the way of the world forever.

Your back slumped as you sat at your desk preparing to leave this office. I, older now, will meet you on the other side. Everything I have learned about consequence, I’ve learned from you.