I walk in the direction of home.
I know the path paths where you live, where sometimes I got to live, a place where sometimes we would walk to together along this path.
I think you’re there now.
I stop in the yogurt place, like we would. I don’t wait for you to try a gross flavor like Black Cherry. I order something. I walk out.
I remind myself: I don’t live at that place anymore; I don’t belong on that side of the street anymore; I don’t have reason to cross that way anymore. I dissect the large and overwhelming triangular intersection with fresh, wide eyes, unsure of where to turn. Staring at the blinking, red hand, I am unbalanced, and my spoon falls to the gravel.
I pick it up. Three miles to go; your sink within three minutes reach. I imagine texting you with this emergency: “Please, I need to wash my spoon before the froyo melts!” I laugh at how perfect the incident, the perfect anecdote of your perception of a flighty, silly me.
It’s a cold and misty Monday night in March. No one walks from Harvard to Boston. The sidewalks are all mine.