By Haley Roberts
We gather here today, in the crux of youth, to bury the lives that we have not and will not live, which leave as quickly as they came. So much time is spent mulling over decisions, especially in the early years. Majors, cities, partners, and the like feel like they’ll make or break us, and the market of choice is so saturated by options that potential for success feels more like drowning than flying. Every avenue taken creates the death of thousands, securing a path down one specific road, at least for the time being. Because we’re human, we mourn.
Nostalgia for these lives builds houses that turn into neighborhoods that turn into urban sprawl with which we spawn from the potential we decided not to fill. My choice to not take a new job one summer lives in a red brick house two blocks away from the years-long friendship that I walked away from after high school. My decision not to pursue science lives across town. Eventually, I’ll fill an entire planet with them. There will be impoverished slums and high-dollar mansions, all with my name crossed out from the mailing address. And I won’t be alone, for my mixed bag of a world will live in the same universe as everyone else’s on this journey, and no two will look the same.
In some ways, we’re taught not to mourn these decisions; therefore, we’re encouraged not to mourn the death of these lives. We’re told everyone has a path and a journey as though predestiny is the very reason the blood in our veins continues to pump. I know, though, that I once held the key to all these houses, and it was the work of my fingers that let them slip away. We live a death of the other choice each day, and though it sounds dreadfully depressing, it is a reason to rejoice.
If anything, this is the triumphant wake for the passing of what could be. Because I am here now. You are, too. And we are doing just fine. Though I am haunted by the narrative of careers, interests, choices, I am comforted by their ghosts. The whispers of what could have been act as reassurances, for if they had not existed, I would not be able to stand so tall or so sure to face the chosen road. Every now and then, their apparitions appear in my periphery—a reminder that forward was not the direction they were headed. Even if they were on the upward trend, would the sacrifice of this sweet life be worth the uncertainty of the trade?
If the dead decisions are abandoned homes, then the ones that were allowed life are the very cells that create a larger being, vibrant and assured in its identity. Mourn not for the empty houses, for no one inhabits them. Stand exultant, instead, in the body of triumphant cells that composes you. It’s through your breath that they continue on. And as you fill your planet with houses, laying bricks and boards with each word spoken, know that they aren’t for you. Your home is elsewhere.
A martyr, these overlooked decisions are. And in their wake, I am here. I am whole. I am thankful.
