Vanilla sky

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It was a Saturday morning, and I was about to meet some friends for breakfast. I’d driven up early, since I didn’t really know the area, and where I would park.

I arrived early, and had a few minutes to spare. There was a park-ish area nearby, so I went for a walk. I had the iPod for a moment, was starting to unwrap the earbuds- I stopped, wrapped them back around the device, and put it back in my pocket. I didn’t need the noise.

It was a cool-ish morning, enough that I had a jacket with me. Calgary’s spring was starting to appear, much too late for my tastes. The trees were sparse, bearing witness to the changing seasons in their appearance: Careful, but not yet sprouting.

My own hands were in my pockets. I couldn’t blame the trees for their caution.

I walked by the old general hospital site, long since torn down. It seemed strange that there had been a hospital there- I had no reference of this, nothing to frame it, to anchor the memory of what had been.

It was moments like this where I felt the struggle keenly: I relished being alone, being able to walk at my pace, to enjoy this without other thought or interruption. But I would also have enjoyed someone there, to enjoy the space with me. No obligations or expectations or things that had to be done right then. It’s a rare spot to be in, so I wanted to bask in it, for a time. Would someone else have seen it like I had, understood the significance of time apart from laptops and cell phones and deadlines?  Why I wanted this moment, before the day (enjoyable as it was) would impose itself?

I walked back soon enough. I’d had the moment, and enjoyed it, privately. Time to get together.

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