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I miss long walks at night, in the crowdiest park in our city, where people bring flashlights and their kids and take a turn around the lake and huddle excitedly to be out past eight for something much more mundane in daylight. The waters are black but the geese are still up, and my family half-jokes about snakes in the tall grass, though I've only ever seen small lizards and the growing number of stray cats.
There's so much to show you if I ever find the means and the courage to pry you from your life. Perhaps in time, post-inoculation, it won't seem so far or infrequent. There's the house I made my home in and had to give up to survive. And the library I spoke of, whose marble staircases give me terrible vertigo but any place to be so appropriately alone is a welcome reprieve. All the best places are always out of town. The aquarium, certainly, but also a vast eucalyptus forest in a valley whose trails lead to a beach of smooth cool gravel instead of sand. Places that remain in me as a moment of real peace often contain redwood trees. I don't think I can rest until I know what we should be. I doubt I'll ease much, but at least I'll have reason to work for what we could be.
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