Salt & Wounds

This post is nearly a two weeks old. I'm just now getting around to posting it.

Even though the snow was well past any definition of freshly fallen, and despite the surplus of tasks that I had been avoiding all day, I went for a nice long walk through the snow. Today has been a rough day. Just as soon as I though it couldn’t get any more uncomfortable…well…I’ll just leave it at that.

My walk took me on my normal route. I left my house, turned left at the corner, and traveled up the sidewalk leaving my footprints behind me. The streets were empty sparing the occasional snowplow. Allow me to share this observation with you: The road condition post-plowing was indeed more treacherous than its virgin condition. Taking note of this, I stayed on the periphery.

Ahead of me I could see the spot that I use as my thinking spot. I turned up the road and slowed my pace. I would not be stopping to think tonight, no, the granite was far too cold for comfort. Ahead of me the road curved. Behind me were footprints.

Today, I lost something that I knew I was going to lose. Today, I informed someone of something that I said I would never share. Today, I found truth in the unrequited. The loss still hurt. The telling was still terrifying. But thankfully, the solitude felt less lonely.

I passed the tennis courts and took a shortcut into the park. I can still hear the sounds of the old pool. The crackling speaker, the lion fountains, the bounce of the diving board. I hope to never forget. The road was a white void in front of me, footprints behind.

You do not [know] me. Each one of you has an idea of who I am. Some of you have shared pieces of that with me. I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong, but you’re not right. You never heard me. You never listened. You don’t understand. Maybe you don’t want to understand. A glance over my shoulder gave evidence that I had not been walking a straight line.

I left the park. Of all the roads in all of town, the salt truck drove down mine. My silent walk was no longer silent. Each step was marked with a crunch. Each footprint was now pitted. I deviated from my normal route. I couldn’t handle the salt any longer. Salt and wounds never mix.