Waiting for the bus, sympathetic conversation with an elderly lady, hardened by the weather, a history in lines, a coastline for a face. Quite pleasant, really. I get tired of explaining everything, routes, circuits and timing. Learning is learned, educative education.
And so to home, momentary lapse through the city’s centre, streets like black and white piano keys, hitting upon the right notes of remembrance. And I would like to move away, maybe. If only for the narrative effect, for the sense of purpose because staying put is not a decision, it is a recognition.
Reading about the news, published today, did it. You will be going. I will not. Before it mattered not, now it does, you spread out under the skies and shielding your skin while meadowing songs bolster the blue caverns above you. The festivities, and the tiny houses packed in rows, villages overnight, friendships strengthened by a week eating hot food from trailers. We all forge memories in ourselves but to share the memorial’s burden is a gift and a travesty, which is why we chase it to the ends of the country.
But of course we had also argued about it, and so it is a wrong on my part. I withered and fell, and already I can’t imagine not spending a single moment with you, my moment. The franchise of words interferes here, the transaction that I have never understood and never will, but your support was raised and is now invaluable, because each one of these hours and sentences I steal from you.
My own defence, my only defence: It is all written straight, like a line.