Expiration Dates

by Rebecca Serle

It’s hard to hold on to people the older we get. Life looks different for everyone, and you have to keep choosing one another. You have to make a conscious effort to say, over and over again, “You.” Not everyone makes that choice. Not everyone can.

“You have to stop believing the worst in everyone. Fuck, Daphne. You have to stop believing the worst in yourself.”

“No,” he says. His voice is calm, steady. “You’re not a terrible person. You deserve to be happy, Daphne. Just let yourself be happy.”

“But the thing is, Daphne. No one’s time is promised. Not yours. Not Mom’s. Not mine. Not Jake’s. It’s just the way it is. We are all dying. Every day. And at some point it becomes a choice. Which one are you going to do today? Are you living or are you dying?”

But being surprised by life isn’t losing, it’s living. It’s messy and uncomfortable and complicated and beautiful. It’s life, all of it. The only way to get it wrong is to refuse to play.

“I don’t know what to do,” I tell him. “Sweetheart,” he says. He squeezes my hand. His grip is strong, assured. “Sure you do.” He smiles at me. There is a glint in his eye. “You just do what’s in your heart.”

It seemed impossible. It always seems impossible to believe the things we cannot see.

I used to think the unknown was impossible—that all it brought was pain and fear and a red-blinking clock, counting down the minutes. Now I know that’s not true, at least, it’s not the only thing that is true. The unknown can be beautiful.