Seventy‑five. Funny how the years seem to shrink now, softer around the edges, like pages thinned by too many readings. I miss the people who once moved through life beside me, the way we laughed our way through ordinary afternoons, the small secrets we treated like gold because only we understood their worth.
I miss the things we shared without effort, the trust, the borrowed hours, the feeling that the road ahead was wide enough to hold every dream we dared to dream.
Some nights I lie awake wishing I could twist the clock backward, fix a line here, soften a word there, smooth out the sharp places I didn’t realize would cut as deeply as they did.
I think about the chances I didn’t take, the doors I shut too fast, the ones I should’ve walked through with a braver heart. Regret sits with me now, quiet, not mean, just truthful.
If life handed me a reset button, I wouldn’t use it to start over. I’d use it to fix what I broke, to choose better where I stumbled, to stay a little longer with the people who shaped the best parts of who I became.
But here I am, still learning, still hoping, still carrying the stories of everyone I’ve loved. And maybe it's enough to remember, to feel, to wish, and to keep moving forward with the wisdom I didn’t have the first time around.
wcd
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