If you’ve ever had a gun pointed at you, even for a second, you know there’s this feeling where the entire world goes away and all you see is the dark void of the gun barrel. Every fibre of your being is focused on that black hole just waiting for something terrible and wicked to come out of it.
Who am I?
I think about that a lot. Who I am. Who other people are. How well we know each other. And how little we know each other.
I’ve known my wife since 8th grade. We’ve been together since 10th grade. I know here better than anyone else. Better than my own family. I’ve certainly spent far more time with her than with anyone else, by a large margin.
She still surprises me.
Hell, I’ve known me most my life and I still surprise myself sometimes.
So who am I? Who are you?
And, more importantly, who am I when I can’t even ask those questions? Who am I if I can’t even tell you my name? Who am I if I forget my wife?
I’m certainly not me, am I?
So I’m pretty scared. All the time. And I think anyone with parents hovering in the neighborhood of 80 must be similarly scared or really fucking lucky.