Petite, shoulder length brown hair and a beret, blue jeans and boots, she walks towards me and for the merest moment it is you, here. I know it is not but let the fantasy play out just a little longer. Could there be some strange cosmic conjunction of time and space on this cold drizzly day in this cold drizzly place that conjures you as a young co-ed walking to me like a character from my own personal Brigadoon? Then her facial features come into view and the shape of her hips and it’s someone else. We walk towards each other on our own sides of the sidewalk. I wonder: Will she look at me? Will she at least make eye contact so I can say “good morning?” But she is in a hurry on this cold drizzly morning and barely lets her eyes glance sideways as we pass.
I stop to tie my shoe and notice the mosaic of leaves, yellow and red, pressed into the cold and drizzly sidewalk by the shoes and boots of others passing each other by.