(Untitled)

I rang, but you were not there, so I walked. Before I knew it, I settled into an easy cadence: left, left, left right left. The 5 count step I've known for years now.

The cadence was natural. It echoed effortlessly in back of my thoughts, ordering them, keeping them as short and simple as the sound of my feet on the sidewalk. 1, 2, 1 2 3. Trees, sky, green wet grass. Kids, bikes, happy young shouts.

When I walk that way, I feel like I can go on forever. My mind shies away from setting a destination--do not pass--or thinking how far I have left to go--you're always going home. I ache for the tunneled backroads of my old home, silent trees pressing in on both sides, faded yellow stripe. They gave the illusion that escape was at least possible. Here, among the identical houses and manicured lawns, I don't even try to pretend I can get away. I just count cadence.

Left
left
left right left

I pass over drain covers (Russco--cruel joke) and through puddles, my feet slapping solidly against the wet ground. 1, 2, 3 4 your left. The frown is between my eyes again, my brow drawn low. Brooding, it would seem. But the cadence keeps me from dwelling, keeps me moving straight ahead. I turn the plastic rectangle in my hand off so its silence doesn't bother me so.

Somewhere around halfway through my aimless walk, I realize that the steady cadence is a trick to keep me from thinking too hard. To wonder what I'm hiding from runs me up against a steel wall in my head, my own mind pushing back my probing conscience.

So this is denial.

I pass the street she always stopped at--left--the spot we saw a hot air balloon--left--the gazebo I cried in--left right--the gorged and rushing creek--left.

And I wonder if this looks more like sanity or insanity, dementia or control.





Still I count cadence. Still I walk forward.