Nightlife

We walk at night,
our children asleep,
through the streets of the Village
filled with the same people as in the day
now drunk and louder.
Not a city but a playground for the wealthy
in their twenties.
On the sidewalks and doorways each pod
a bubble of shared experiences and expectations,
wrapped in their confidence of being
correct.

But I am harsh.
It is that they are drunk
and I am not,
but I have been drunk before
and remember
feeling how they feel.
And I am filled with shame and sadness and confidence and clarity
all at once
in equal measure.

It is easy to judge.
It is difficult to let the world wash over;
to ignore the parts that bother
but do not affect.
I was once loud and sure I was correct.
Sure that I had the truth.
But I am happier now.
I can miss the excitement, the shared experience of those times.
And now I see it as it was:
a person
struggling,
finding relief where he could.
Trying his best.

We walk home
past the yelling and singing and stumbling and loud voices,
through our front door into our room.
The splayed form of the cat
shifts her head
to invite scratches behind her ear.

I sit down,
feeling relief,
feeling calm.