Second Street

I remember, from time to time, someone who has always remained very dear to me. I loved her with a joy and abandon that can only be experienced just once, briefly, somewhere between naivety and heartache.

We lived together for a time, in a very small studio apartment across the street from a park, a walk away from the school she was attending. (The neighborhood has scarcely changed in the years since. I once tried to find the building where we lived, but I'd long since forgotten the address, and all of the buildings on the street seem interchangeable.) She wrote poetry — I can still picture her handwriting. (I've had my heart broken far too often by girls who write poetry.) I had just taken my first job in Graphic Design. We lived there for quite some time, yet for some reason, whenever I think of that apartment it's always late in October.

When the relationship dissolved there were tears and pain, of course — but I can't seem to recall any acrimony or bitterness (though she left me just before my birthday). We would always remain close, though at a distance. I remember she used to cut my hair.

Some time after, when she was living in Vermont (though I've forgotten the reasons why) I almost went to join here there. I was at a loose end — that's as much as I remember — and the thought of settling in among a quiet, small town and finding a new life seemed appealing, somehow. (It still does.)

It would be several years, and several changes of address, before we found each other again. Both of our lives had recently become unsettled — she had recently married, or separated (or both) and now had a ten-month-old daughter. It was only with the benefit of experience that I came to realize that I couldn't begin to understand what she must have been going through as a new parent.

That was almost twenty years ago — it seems almost unbelievable that so much time could have passed. By now, her daughter must be almost the age she and I were when we first met.

I've thought of contacting her, again (and again). I can't imagine I have a current address, but I'm reasonably certain a letter could find it's way to her. Part of me would prefer to leave those pleasant memories undisturbed — yet another part is overwhelmed by curiosity.

I tend to walk on, to allow people to pass from my life, never forgotten, but constant in memory.