The paths we walked became sacred to me, but like all things beautiful the memory is laced with pain.
The moments we shared- nothing more than tiny windows in time really- was mostly spent walking together. These were occasions that allowed us the momentary chance to dream. Extracted from the complexities of the rest of our lives, these walks provided space to imagine the future. There was no clear destination in mind on these adventures- an apt metaphor perhaps for our drifting yet intoxicating bond. Mostly we would end up in the city after navigating some course through the suburban backstreets.
As we walked we talked about plans. She wanted a house with a white picket fence- in this, she was firm an irresolute. “With me?” I once asked as suspicion grew within me that I might have been an accidental character in her fairy tale.
“Of course my darling! Who else!” she replied.
“What else do you want?” I asked.
She responded with growing excitement. “Well, not much really. Just a house by the water, a family and lot’s of money so I can travel.”
“You want to travel with me, right?”
I had asked a stupid question, apparently. “Stop being so silly,” she said sarcastically. “Of course with you.”
We continued on. She was beautiful and I wanted to be around her.
I knew she was just trying to make me feel good. I grew increasingly sombre, as I too joined in the illusion that everything would work out as we planned. This was in spite of a gnawing realisation that everything we were experiencing would soon end. I held her hand, telling myself that in so doing we would be bound together somehow. She gripped my hand in return and everything seemed OK for a while.
The twilight hours would eventually descend, and the sun would retreat so that it could commence its shift on the other side of the world. We hurried our pace, not wanting to be caught in the darkness. Once in the city, I would drop her at the train station. She always needed to leave by sundown. One day she left for good. I returned to walk the path home alone.