We Don’t Miss

At the end of the block, you turn left. I turn right. Our joined hands bring us both to a stop.

We look down at our arms, stretched between us.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“With you, apparently.”

You laugh. I take two steps back.

I woke up smiling, and I just can’t stop. I let the sunshine fill my eyes and feel my energy rise with the morning.

“You were saying something?” I ask.

“I said look at the sky.”

Above the roofs, a broad pink cloud catches the morning light. The windows across the street have caught it too. Little pieces of the same sky run all the way down the block.

“Oh,” I say.

We stand there together.

I say ~

“I look around. I live my life right now.”

A breeze moves through my shirt. Somewhere nearby, someone opens a window. I hear the scrape of the frame and then a radio playing low.

Your hand rests easily in mine.

I notice how tightly I have been holding it.

I loosen my fingers. You shift yours a little, settling them more comfortably between mine. The breeze reaches the damp skin at the back of my neck.

“I am safe in my own body.”

I take a full breath. My ribs move against the cloth of my shirt. When I breathe out, my arm hangs loose beside yours.

We begin walking again.

The conversation in my head offers up one more answer. It is a good answer. I almost want to keep it.

“I’m fully awake and alive!”

I say it out loud, with some force.

A woman watering her porch plants glances over.

“Morning!” I call.

“Morning!”

She lifts the watering can in greeting, sending a little water over the side of a pot. You smile at her. She smiles back and sets the can down.

By the time we reach the next driveway, I have forgotten my answer.

You brush against my shoulder.

“Me and you? We always connect. We don’t miss.”

You squeeze my hand.

“Even when we’re going in opposite directions.”

“You went left.”

“You went right.”

We laugh, walking close enough now that our arms no longer stretch between us.

At the water, we stop at the railing. You lean forward on your elbows. I stand beside you, watching the bright patches move across the surface.

The pink cloud has begun to fade. Its reflection breaks apart each time a small wave reaches the wall, then gathers again farther out.

You point to something.

This time, I follow your finger.

A bird is bathing in the shallow water beside the steps. It ducks its head, throws water over its back, and pauses with its feathers sticking out in every direction.

We wait for it to do it again.

“Life is so beautiful!”

The bird plunges in. You laugh through your nose, trying to be quiet.

When we finally leave the railing, you reach behind you without looking. I put my hand in yours.

At the corner, we take the long way home.