EMILY PRATT SLATIN

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She/Her/Hers Lesbian

Retired Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer, living in Vermont.

Memories With Street Addresses

June 16, 2026—Middletown Springs, Vermont (Home)

I have learned that some people need understanding more than advice.

People are often surprised by how much continuity exists in their lives. The child who carried a notebook everywhere usually becomes the adult who documents everything. The kid who stopped to look at everything they found intriguing usually becomes the adult who wants to know how the world works.

We change less than we imagine, or aspire to. We mostly become larger versions of the same story. The older I get, the more I suspect wisdom has less to do with acquiring answers and more to do with identifying which questions are worth carrying for the rest of my life.

A pine tree doesn't care whether anyone thinks it is beautiful. It grows toward the light, survives the winter, and keeps thriving.

Human beings would probably be happier if we spent less time performing our identities and more time inhabiting them.

I was the sort of child who went down slides headfirst—not because anyone told me to, and not because it was a good idea, but because I wanted to know what the simple joys in life looked like from another angle.

People think experience teaches confidence. Experience actually teaches uncertainty. Confidence comes later, when you realize uncertainty is not the same thing as being lost.

The world becomes much easier to understand once you stop mistaking authority for wisdom. The child is grown but the dream was never lost.

I spent several days at my mother's house catching up on decades' worth of deferred maintenance. Neglect rarely announces itself—it accumulates gradually, then introduces itself all at once.

There are places that stop feeling like locations and start feeling like memories with street addresses. I considered summer camp to be the most magical place on earth. That changed when I had to seek a last-minute summer job at that same camp when dad kicked me out.

I sent in my alumni reunion request form and have yet to hear back. If the reunion comes and goes, that is the most telling out of a handful of possible outcomes. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter.

Last night I met up at John's Tavern with Nora. We sat at a table by the window. The front window of the bar faces mom's house, and when I was a little girl, I used to enjoy the same blue glow on the sidewalk that my parents used to complain about.

Nora and I listened to music and talked about my childhood and what it was like to grow up in Stamford over a couple of beers.

The soundtrack for the evening wandered through Drive by The Cars, Coming Around Again by Carly Simon, Strawberry Wine by Deana Carter, Closer to Fine by Indigo Girls, Champagne Supernova and Wonderwall by Oasis, Wild Horses by The Sundays, Anna Begins by Counting Crows, Comfortably Numb by Roger Waters, Mandolin Rain by Bruce Hornsby and The Range, Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks, Enjoy the Silence by Depeche Mode, Nutshell by Alice in Chains, The Memory Remains by Metallica, and Caught By The River by Doves.

Even now, certain songs still carry the feeling of my favorite sweater in October.