More than 20 years ago, around midnight, a day or two before Christmas, I turned to my boyfriend at the time and said, “I want to go to the beach. Take me to Atlantic City.”
It was too cold to stay on the beach for long, but I got to hear the ocean for a few minutes.
I was so tired on the way home that while crossing over the drawbridge near my house, I saw the red and green lights indicating whether the bridge was up or down and thought they were Christmas decorations.
My exhaustion reminded me I was running low on times like those, when a spontaneous idea could be made manifest. Soon, I’d be too tired to argue for them, or even suggest them, or even to want to go.
I always knew events like that were finite, and what does that mean? I don’t know.