Lightning flashed bright above the skeletons in a strange city. Cold October rain ran down the back of a neck collared in high-viz blues. An inhospitable wind blew in west from the big lake, carrying with it the last kisses of those warm weather collisions.
But I stood alone in the rain that hollow Saturday night. Felt the shift of the seasons on a greying face. The one turned over towards the river. And there, amidst the blustering of that storm, I felt myself hurting for her.
Rows of Old Town brick houses stood guard over a spot that was special only to us. Because it was once the place where we just couldn’t bring ourselves to say goodbye.
I will never forget that day.
We stood, locked on that sidewalked spot. And lingered forever in that embrace. We kissed and held on to each other. Debated the possibilities of my staying here in the land of Q.D. Donut Munchers. If even for just the night. Simply for the opportunity to be near her. Because she wanted me close. And I wanted so desperately to be wanted.
But, that was a lifetime ago.
Our promises of forever eventually broke under the weight of more immediate divorcing concerns. Addresses changed in the heat of Clinton County conflicts. Well-intentioned hearts shattered that early Sunday morning spent walking out of her meadow—for what would prove to be the last time.
It is a different city now.
But everything in Old Town remains exactly the same. And yet somehow, entirely different.
The ladder is still there for all the fish to bypass the inconvenient barrier of the dam. That little house of coffee, with a mirror on the wall and memories in the window, still grinds out their daily brews for the soy-based hipster masses. And that damn sidewalk still stretches out across all the places where we used to walk.
But she isn’t there anymore.
Sometimes, that absence fills me with a sense of grudging acceptance. Because it was only through the lens of too much green glass that I could clearly see that we weren’t actually healthy together. And I have mostly made my peace with that realization.
Other nights, I am left standing on naked street corners. In an Old Town rain. A stormy fox, usually drunk out of his head, wondering where the fuck his favorite little bunny went.
I never really know which kind of night is going to gain the most ground. I just know that standing still is often what kills me the most.
So I have to keep fucking going.
Even if it’s on my own…
