Old Address — Pullover Hoodie

I still slow down outside the old place. There is no practical reason to. The door is a different color, somebody has replaced the pot on the step, and nobody currently inside is expecting me to have an opinion about either decision.

Still, I know which paving stone used to move. I know where I stood to find the key at the bottom of my bag. I can remember the sound of the stairs more easily than I can remember several people I met while living there.

From the street it looks smaller. This is a familiar trick of old rooms and an unfair one, considering how many large feelings I managed to keep in them. I had a table that barely fitted, a lamp I liked and a very firm idea of where I would be living next. The lamp eventually made the journey. The idea needed more time.

Today I am wearing the coral hoodie and carrying a bag from somewhere that did not exist when I lived here. I stand across the road while a person comes out, locks the door and checks it twice. That part seems to have survived.

I could explain my connection to the building. I could ask whether the window still sticks. Instead I look toward the upper room and remember an evening when all we had for dinner was something assembled on the table, and everyone stayed much later than the room could reasonably accommodate.

The person walks away. I continue down the street. At the corner I turn in the direction of the old food shop before remembering where I meant to go.

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