Traces

Walking down Mass Ave between Harvard and home. Cool slight breeze. It's late and my eyes are tired.

Thinking of fun stuff I'd do on a night like this in the past. But the folks involved have all moved away, or out of my life in one way or another.

Even when I had one or the other, I usually felt alone because they weren't available all that often. Only in my mind did I try to remember the positives, to merely have the devil on my shoulder remind me of the disappointing truth.

I'm only slightly down. It might not even be down, so much as internally quiet.

It's hard getting older.

I could ride my bike, but my tire's flat, and where would I go anyway.

So many places and people now closed.

I remain, like the undead.

But there is work. And hope.

They are why I get up day after day.

I should be welcoming spring, but sometimes, on nights like this, the increased crowds on the street - the urban wanderers - make me more aware of my aloneness.

So perhaps I'll raise a glass to the constantcy of solitude.