Walking home.

I was walking down the street this afternoon. It was cold, but the cold was comfortable in some odd way. My hair kind of brushed against my jawbone and tickled my nose under my hat in the wind. It was odd to feel warm when it was so cold. There’s something gratifying in that, being able to walk down the gray sidewalk in the dead of winter, feeling warm, serene, aware.

As I walked, I watched. I pulled the black shopping bag down from the bare tree branches. Who knows how long it had been trapped there, blowing in the wind, out of place, flapping, ugly. I straightened the sign on the garage door that said, “No Parking,” and that was hanging askew. I scraped all the old gum off the sidewalk and washed the windows of the supermarket. I blew all but the wispiest, whitest clouds away and gazed at the blue sky and the yellow sun, bringing colors to life before me. I smiled at the bank. I kept my hands in my pockets instead of wearing my gloves, and I walked home.

The wind swirled all around me, everything was changing, and I stood smugly in my shoes, knowing that of all the uncertainties I knew, none would keep me from getting home and from finding you.

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