Worry

by Alexandra Tanner

Every time I think of something I want I manage to talk myself out of it. I close my eyes and tell myself to think hard about my deepest wish for my future life. I tell myself it’s okay to imagine; that I’m safe inside my own head; that I can get specific; that my desires are worth considering. Before I know it, it’s morning, and I don’t remember dreaming of anything.

“And, you know, listen, mistakes happen. But as an editor—senior editor—it’s your job to, uh, fact-check rigorously? And I just don’t know how we could’ve missed it.” By “we” he means “you.” Why do bosses do that?

“God,” Poppy says, “you’re such a bad driver.” “There are no bad drivers,” says our father, “just bad passengers.” We don’t say anything. “That’s a metaphor,” he continues. “For life.”

“I’m so sad,” Poppy says into my shoulder. “Life is so hard.” “Life isn’t that hard.” I hold her close. “But it’s a little hard.”