The basement reeks of old wood polish and Della's blackened catfish—that particular fucking smell of cornmeal crust meeting cast iron at temperatures designed to carbonize everything except the fish itself. Miguel's behind the bar wearing this ridiculous apron that says "Yes, Chef" in pink glitter letters, gift from Della last Christmas that he wears like papal vestments. Phoenix hunches over their laptop in the corner beanbag, purple-and-gold hair catching light from the stage spots, fingers flying across keys with the manic energy of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts through legal theory assignments.
Erin sits at the bar nursing what looks like her third brandy, notebook open but pen motionless against paper—journalist paralysis, the kind that happens when you've asked the wrong question or maybe the right one but don't want to hear your own answer. She arrived two hours ago asking if anyone had thoughts about legacy, about what we pass down, about what messages matter when you can't go back and unfuck the past.
Remy , the Cajun wise blurts out: Write a letter to a younger version of yourself. What do they need to hear?
Now we're all staring at drinks like they contain answers instead of just more questions wrapped in alcohol.
Mom, you actually gonna do this or just glare at your bourbon like it insulted your mother? Ezra calls from their beanbag throne, blue hair electric under the overhead lights.
Fuck you Ezra. I say gleefully but funnily.
Miguel slides the glass closer to me, wedding ring clicking against its rim. This batch, he says, voice carrying that weird childlike quality mixed with sultry smoke, aged in barrels that survived three hurricanes. Tastes like defiance.
It's Maker's Mark, but the way he describes it makes bottom-shelf bourbon taste like communion wine sipped from Helen's hands in golden fields where she sent me back to keep living. I take a drink, let it burn down my throat like penance or promise—can't ever tell which.
"The Logical Song" bleeds through the crackling speakers, Supertramp's synthesizers making the basement feel both dated and timeless. Della emerges from the kitchen carrying a platter of catfish that smells like heaven looks like sin tastes like home, sets it down with enough force to rattle every glass on nearby tables.
You motherfuckers gonna write or just philosophize your way through another Thursday? she demands, grease-stained apron proclaiming her kitchen dictatorship.
Lisa speaks first, farm-girl practical even when discussing impossible hypotheticals. She's fifty-seven years of wrong marriages and right revelations, sitting at the bar with her Jameson and Diet Coke like it's medicine and poison mixed equal parts.
I'd tell that scared kid that all those feelings she's trying to baptize away aren't sins—they're directions. That marrying that boy because everyone expects it will cost her thirty years she could've spent happy. That 'normal' is just another word for 'miserable but approved.' Lisa's voice carries across the basement with authority of someone who figured out life the hard way, who learned wasted years trying to be someone else's idea of normal were just years she could've been happy. Tears start rolling. I want to hug her, but I know she has got to tell her truth.
She takes a drink, ice cubes rattling against plastic cup. I'd tell her that coming out at fifty-six isn't too late, it's exactly on time. That her kids will understand eventually or they won't, but living honestly beats dying slowly inside a lie everyone else finds comfortable.
Bubba shifts his massive frame in the chair by the window, mountain made of muscle and memory. His voice rumbles up from somewhere deep in his chest, Georgia clay and survival mixed into every syllable. I notice Remy's moved closer to Bubba's table since the conversation started, cigarette smoke drifting in Bubba's direction like it knows the way by heart.
I'd tell that skinny Black kid in 1970s backwoods Georgia that being gay ain't gonna kill him—closet will, but being gay won't. That all those nights praying to be different, begging God to fix what ain't broken, those are wasted prayers. I'd tell him to save that energy for the real fights coming.
You were skinny once, Bubba? I jokingly prod.
Shut yo mouth, girl, he bellows with joy.
He pauses, fingers drumming against the table like he's counting decades. I'd tell him that fairy and faggot are just words, that fists hurt worse than names, that learning to hit back matters less than learning when to walk away. That finding chosen family will save his life when blood family tries to end it.
Remy nods slowly, exhales smoke that catches the light. There's something in the way Bubba's left hand rests on the table, palm up, fingers relaxed—not reaching for anything, just existing in Remy's peripheral vision.
"Comfortably Numb" starts playing, Pink Floyd's guitar solo cutting through basement air like David Gilmour's trying to perform surgery on our collective trauma. I feel it in my chest, that particular ache that comes from songs Gizmo and I used to scream together during Saturday morning grocery runs, her voice hitting notes making angels weep with jealousy.
Sage doesn't speak immediately. They never do. Instead they pull out their colored pens, start drawing on a napkin—intricate mandala incorporating symbols I recognize from different decades of queer resistance. Lambda, pink triangles, trans pride colors bleeding into rainbow spectrum. Their hands move with precision suggesting meditation rather than art, like they're channeling something instead of creating it.
When they finally speak, voice carries tuning-fork clarity cutting through bullshit and pretense and performance.
I'd tell them that silence isn't safety. That being asexual and aromantic doesn't mean being alone. That all those people insisting something's wrong, that they're broken, that they just haven't met the right person yet—those people are wrong. That love manifests through attention, care, showing up. That intimacy isn't exclusively sexual. That they're complete exactly as they are.
Sage sets down the pen, napkin now transformed into testimony written in color and symbol. I'd tell them to stop waiting for feelings that will never arrive. To stop forcing themselves into boxes designed for different shapes. That their quiet isn't absence—it's presence distilled to essential truth.
Erin's been scribbling notes this whole time, journalist instincts overriding participant status. But now she sets down her pen, picks up her brandy, takes a drink that suggests she's buying time to gather courage.
I'd tell that girl trying so hard to define herself through other people's desires that she doesn't need to pick a side. That pansexuality isn't greed or confusion or commitment issues—it's just honest. That all those people insisting she's going through a phase, that she needs to choose, that she's making it harder than it needs to be—fuck them. I’d also tell her to love that boy part of her, and coddle him. Tell him to grow.
She laughs, but it sounds like breaking glass. I'd tell her that writing will give her permission to ask questions but chosen family will give her permission to stop performing having all the answers. That Thursday nights at a basement bar in a forgotten part of downtown will teach her more about truth than any degree program.
Keira speaks from her corner, voice cutting through with that precise scalpel quality that makes everyone shut up and listen.
You're all writing letters to people who don't exist anymore. Those younger versions died or evolved or got beaten into different shapes. The question isn't what they needed to hear—it's what you need to forgive them for not knowing.
The basement goes quiet except for Heart's "Barracuda" starting up, Ann Wilson's voice declaring war on anyone stupid enough to underestimate women with guitars and rage.
Remy lights another cigarette, exhales philosophy with smoke. Mon Dieu, your woman speaks truth sharper than my mama's kitchen knife. We're not writing to the past—we're absolving it.
Bubba's weathered face shows something softer when Remy speaks—not quite a smile, more like recognition of familiar territory. Miguel sets a fresh beer in front of Bubba without being asked, and I notice it's the same Abita Amber that appeared at Remy's elbow twenty minutes ago. Coincidence, probably. Or Miguel reading the room better than the rest of us. Phoenix takes a note, and just keep it to themselves.
Phoenix looks up from their laptop, face showing that premature wisdom earned through surviving parental rejection young. So we're not giving advice, we're granting forgiveness? For not knowing what we couldn't have known?
Exactly. Keira turns a page in her book like she's closed this case. You can't warn someone who doesn't have the language yet. You can only forgive them for stumbling through darkness before anyone handed them a fucking flashlight.
I take another drink of Miguel's defiant bourbon, feel it burn through years of accumulated guilt about every mistake, every missed signal, every time I chose wrong because I didn't know right existed yet.
My turn.
I'd tell that kid in K1 fighting that you can't beat the woman out of yourself no matter how many ribs you break or how much blood you leave on the canvas. That Helen's kitchen already taught you womanhood before you had words for it. That all those years married trying to be William weren't wasted—they gave you Gizmo & Mary, and those relationships are worth every painful year.
My voice cracks, chest tightening with that ghost-stab ache that comes from missing my daughter with grief approaching physical pain. I'd tell that terrified person finally coming out as trans and that transition will cost you everything except yourself. That you'll lose trust, family, certainty—but you'll gain the ability to breathe without suffocating. That your brother will try to kill you in this very basement and you'll survive because Helen didn't send you back from golden fields just to let you quit now.
Ezra bounces over, piercings glinting like armor pieces, and wraps arms around my shoulders from behind. You also need to tell baby Wendy that she's gonna collect the most annoyingly loving chosen family who will absolutely refuse to let her wallow in guilt spirals.
Miguel sets down another bourbon without being asked, this one darker, richer. Woodford Reserve Double Oaked, he says. For when regular bourbon isn't complicated enough.
Della emerges again, this time carrying plates of her bacon mac and cheese—the kind that tastes like defiance wrapped in dairy and carbs. She slides one in front of me with enough force to make silverware jump. Another plate lands at Bubba's table with precision that suggests muscle memory—she's been feeding him in this exact spot long enough to know the trajectory. Remy's already got a fork in hand before the plate settles, like he knew it was coming. Like maybe he's eaten from Bubba's plate before.
Eat, you stubborn bitch. Writing emotional letters to ghosts requires fuel.
"Message in a Bottle" starts playing, The Police's desperate plea cutting through basement air with Sting's voice carrying particular ache of isolation before finding community.
Phoenix saves their document, closes laptop with decisive click. So we're all just... carrying these letters to people who don't exist anymore? Versions of ourselves we can't reach, can't warn, can't save?
Bubba's voice rumbles with sixty years of southern survival. We carry them because forgetting them would mean forgetting how we got here. Every scared kid I was, every closeted teenager, every young man learning to survive when being Black and gay could get you killed—they're all part of this. He gestures at his massive frame. Can't have me without them.
Cher, you always did carry weight better than most, Remy says quietly, almost too quiet for anyone except Bubba to hear. But I'm watching, and I see the way Bubba's shoulders shift—not quite relaxing, but settling into something more comfortable. Like someone just reminded him he doesn't have to hold everything alone.
Lisa nods, practical wisdom cutting through emotional fog. Every version of me that married wrong, that tried to pray away what wasn't sin, that waited too goddamn long to live honestly—they're all necessary. Can't have the woman who came out at fifty-six without the woman who spent fifty-five years building to that moment.
Sage holds up their napkin mandala, colors catching light like stained glass. Every lonely kid thinking they're broken, every teenager forcing themselves into boxes designed for different shapes, every young adult still searching for feelings that will never arrive—they led to this person who understands that quiet isn't absence, it's presence distilled to essential truth.
Erin writes something final in her notebook, underlines it three times. Every girl trying to define herself through other people's desires, every woman performing certainty she didn't feel, every writer asking the rightquestions to avoid answering her own—they're all part of the person who finally understands that chosen family gives you permission to stop performing.
I look around the basement—the refurbished walls holding decades of chosen family's love made manifest, the stage where we've shared truth too raw for daylight, the kitchen where Della transforms fury into comfort food, the bar where Miguel pours sanctuary into plastic cups. Remy's cigarette has burned down to the filter, ash collecting in the tray positioned perfectly between his chair and Bubba's. Like someone moved it there deliberately. Like it's been sitting in that specific spot for weeks.
We're not writing letters to the past, I say, bourbon making my voice rougher. We're writing receipts. Proof that those scared kids we were survived long enough to become the people giving advice we needed then. We're evidence that it gets better isn't just platitude—it's testimony written in survival.
Ezra raises their plastic cup of something bright blue and probably toxic. To the ghosts we used to be. May they rest in peace knowing they got us here.
But no one drinks. Wrong occasion. Instead we sit in comfortable silence while David Bowie's "Heroes" plays, his voice declaring that we can be heroes just for one day, though we've learned that heroism isn't dramatic—it's showing up repeatedly for people who claim you as chosen family.
Bubba stands to leave first, mountain of a man moving with deliberate care. Remy's already on his feet before Bubba reaches the door, not following exactly, just... moving in the same direction with the inevitability of tide following moon. Their shoulders don't touch as they navigate the narrow basement stairs, but the space between them feels deliberate, measured, like they've calibrated the exact distance that reads as casual to anyone not paying attention.
The bourbon tastes like defiance aged in barrels that survived hurricanes. My sciatic nerve sends electric fire through spine, titanium plates holding together leg shattered into forty-seven fractures, windpipe still crushed seventy percent, ribs healed wrong from puncturing lung. Every scar testimony that I'm still here despite everyone—including younger versions of myself—who thought I wouldn't survive.
Keira catches my eye across the basement, doesn't smile but her expression carries pride alongside something softer. She returns to her book, presence saying more than any letter to the past ever could.
Miguel polishes glasses behind the bar, wedding ring catching light with every circular motion. He watches Bubba and Remy leave with an expression that suggests he's been reading this particular story for chapters already, just waiting for the rest of us to catch up. Della crashes around her kitchen, cursing ingredients with the enthusiasm of someone who understands that love manifests through aggressive care. Phoenix returns to their legal theory, purple-gold hair electric under stage lights.
We're all just carrying letters to people who don't exist anymore, messages for younger versions who couldn't have understood them yet, forgiveness for not knowing what we had no language to articulate.
The basement holds us like sanctuary holds congregation—imperfect, necessary, transforming survival into something approaching grace.
"We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person." — W. Somerset Maugham
The letters we write to younger selves aren't instructions—they're absolutions. We forgive those earlier versions for stumbling through darkness before anyone handed them flashlights, for making mistakes using maps drawn by people who wanted them lost. Every patron in this basement carries ghost versions of themselves, scared kids and closeted teenagers and young adults still learning that survival isn't just endurance but evolution. We write these letters not to change the past but to acknowledge that the past changed us—transformed frightened children into people strong enough to become the chosen family we needed then. The happy chance Maugham speaks of isn't luck—it's the fierce intentional love of continuing to claim each other as we change, as we evolve, as we become people our younger selves couldn't have imagined existing. We are not the same persons we were when we first stumbled into this basement seeking sanctuary. We are evidence that transformation isn't betrayal—it's the most honest form of fidelity to the truth of who we're becoming.