How to be a Villager
Notes on an age of lowercase plans.
I want a village.
But you can’t have a village without being a villager.
Everyone says they miss community.
But they also love leaving messages on seen.
They love brunches that end with “we should do this more often.”
They love plans that live and die quietly in group chats.
I keep showing up,
to birthdays, to dinners, to the maybe-plans
that sound like hope spoken in subscripts.
People say I take these things too seriously.
Maybe. But I don’t know how to do it halfway.
If I care, I bring snacks, playlists,
and the unrequested enthusiasm of someone
who still believes friendship is a verb.
Someone once told me I get too bummed when plans fall through.
As if caring were bad manners.
But that’s the thing,
it’s me showing up to light the fire, not just bask in it.
It’s me saying, I’m here. Truly.
I try to be a villager.
I carry napkins, refill glasses,
remember who likes the window seat.
It’s how I say I care, in fine fidelities,
the kind that often looks like logistics from afar.
The best villages overlap a little.
Your festivals on my calendar,
my leftovers in your fridge,
the comfort of knowing our lives brushed,
even briefly, like sleeves in a crowd.
And still, sometimes, they don’t.
Sometimes someone you hold as home
never learned your address.
You understand it, always,
but it leaves a hollow-shaped sting in the ribs,
whispering almost.
The rest is practice:
not letting absence turn to distance,
not letting distance rename itself peace.
The decision to stay soft in a world
that rewards the first to leave.
Maybe this, too, is being a villager,
the waiting, the tending,
the small hopeful wave from just outside the firelight.
Anyway. Here I am,
city girl with three calendars
trying to build a village out of WhatsApp groups and cold brew.
Still showing up.
Still bringing snacks.
Still hoping someone brings plates.