A library has no business being closed.
Side streets beckon to us as we walk. Their houses and trees are pressed close, their sidewalks are rumpled and scratchy with fallen leaves. They're dotted with pumpkins, and their windows peek out from shutters and flower boxes.
Revelations on a Friday afternoon. I have just enough time to send out some emails and make a couple of calls before I abstain from technology for the next twenty-five hours. Monday will be here soon enough. Meanwhile I need to retreat into my Friday night and wait. Patiently.
In the park the fountain is drained. The water has given way to scattered leaves and children barreling around in the basin on tricycles.
'What-ifs' and 'if-onlys' can breed and multiply and take hold of your soul if you let them.
What comforts me: singing aloud, which brings a kind of catharsis. Meaningful reading, which shores up my sense of purpose. Another person's laughter, which spreads joy.
It hurts me to see you hurt, she says, grimacing at my bandaged wrist.