If You Live In It

Ah, the complexity of late early July. The summer feeling both over and only beginning. Memories of the previous years now fully defrosted, demanding attention. The hope that this summer will finally be the one. 

I slip my earbuds in, gently pulling the door to my apartment shut behind me. The building is old and clean. Radiators dot the hallway, the drips of white paint dried and frozen in time. The green carpets mistaken for a golf course mowed by a landscaper just trying to do his best. 

I peek in my mailbox on my way out to avoid the man walking in the door I need to leave out of. He walks downstairs without a word, and I quickly make my way out. 

The air is warm, but not encompassing. Instead of being heavy like a damp towel, it feels more like a blow dryer left running in the next room over. 

I turn to the left, the parking lot now behind me. I walk down the sidewalk, avoiding the spots where it's upturned from tree roots. Next to me walks a 7-year-old, jumping on each piece of concrete. Each tree root shoved the sidewalk into a complex and challenging course. She looks like me. 

We make it to the corner. Left or right. I look over at my friend's house. She’s home, she always is. Maybe I'll call her later. I take a left, leaving her behind. 

We walk steadily now. I stopped to look at a small church. It looks like a house. In front, there's a terrace with ribbons tied across it. I move closer, reading the faded sign. 

Make a wish and tie a ribbon 

I grab a white ribbon from the repurposed ballot box. I make my wish, tying the ribbon near the bottom. I look over as my friend ties hers on the other side. I wonder what she wished for. When all the ribbon is gone, do they untie these and put them in the box? Is that when my wish will come to fruition? She starts walking ahead, and I turn to catch up. 

We come to another intersection. She takes a right across the street and into the university. She must have a class. I take a right as well. 

I climb the stairs, my eyes darting between buildings and doors. I don't see her. I walk alone to the conservatory. 

The trees shade the area, making the air feel cool and refreshing. Walking in, I feel humidity now, easily unnoticed as my attention turns to the butterflies moseying around. 

I walk around the fountain in the center. A teenager is standing on the other side, watching a blue butterfly land on the edge. I choose to leave them to it, making it out the door on the left. 

Then I get the urge to run. 

I sprinted out of the university. I run hard, my feet trying to slam into the ground for more momentum. I go so fast I can't even see where I'm going. I make a right, then a left, then straight. One more right and a few blocks down. I stand in front of my old apartment. 

The lights are on, the windows just barely above ground. I peer down into it, but all there is from this angle is the floor. I recognize it. 

It's on the corner. I see someone in the store across the way. I make my way over to the familiar salesperson. I go in and browse the racks, pushing past old jerseys and tourist t-shirts. I see the shirt I wore that week I stayed in the hospital. I keep looking. 

I look through my old pajama pants and bags I never used before finding a woven bracelet made for my middle school best friend. I leave it. 

It's late afternoon. I walk towards the main road. I take a right. 

I walk alone. Or maybe I walk with everyone I’ve ever known. 

The song changes, and I start to look at the flowers outside of the library. Someone is with me, but I'm not sure where. 

Curiosity gets the better of me. The sense of them there dragging me in like a magnet. I circle around to the entrance. The library is even quieter than the sweet July afternoon. I look to the center of the room where huge windows climb to the ceiling, shaded by trees and a dream to sit with in the rain. I see him sitting in an armchair, reading. 

I won't bother him either, but I linger. 

I don't remember how I got to the store. I walk around. The squeaky wheels of a cart moving painfully slow down each aisle remind me of something. I know what it is, but I won't say it. 

I found what I was looking for, but I can't buy it. So I leave, walking out and to the right. My friend is getting gas. I walk over and get in. I can't hear her music over mine, but she brings me to work. 

I walk inside, looking around. Everything seems to be finished. My manager clocks out. 

So I head home. 

When I walk into my apartment, I see myself as I am now. 

It's July, it's warm, and I'm at home. I'm in my apartment. My coffee maker is heating up as I warm up banana bread. I’m going to sit down and write a story. The windows are open, the birds are on the powerlines outside, I went for a walk today. My car still runs, and I'll order food for dinner later. My best friend is texting me. I have an earphone in listening to new songs. I showered today. I’m okay.

Everyone's at the carnival, and I didn't go (The past comes with you into the future. If you live in it, you will be the only one left)