Yes, things are possible. You can go for a jog to be a healthier person and die from the impact of a car running you over because the driver had to send that text precisely the moment you got to that crosswalk. You can end up despising that perfume you’d been obsessed with for the last few years. You can experience tremendous success with a mediocre project, but with unbelievable timing and good—and expensive—PR. You can fall in love with the person you once couldn’t stand, for the same reasons you couldn’t stand them. All of these things are possible. In fact, almost all things are possible. And those possibilities, much to my regret, are mostly out of our control.
“Remember, what you can control is the point of view, Ale. Remind yourself to zoom out.” That is my tutor speaking, whom I’ve forced into becoming my therapist, too. We’re supposed to discuss the premise of my thesis, but I’ve managed to swerve the conversation into a subject far more interesting: why does it feel so strange to be alive?
It’s not like being dead feels normal. I don’t know. I don’t remember, I mean. But is it ever not overwhelming, this thing we’re all doing?
Last week, we took our son to the Children’s Museum. On our way there, my son asked us if we would find dinosaurs at the museum. Those days, we were supposed to be in New York City visiting museums, among other wonderful activities. Of course, my son had shown special interest in the American Museum of Natural History, because of the giant dinosaurs they keep there. We had to cancel last minute —but that’s a story for another day. The thing is that my son thought he would find dinosaurs at the Miami Children’s Museum. My husband and I looked at each other with that look, the one that gurgles with notes of fear, sadness, anticipatory guilt, and complicity.
“I don’t know about dinosaurs, my love, but I’m sure we will find incredible things,” I said.
“I will find a dog!”
“I don’t know… I don’t think we’ll find a dog… But maybe, we’ll see!”
Forty minutes later, my son had found a dog at the Children’s Museum. It was not just a dog, but a replica of the dog we share a home with. This is the thing with children: they know stuff —important stuff— that we completely ignore.