THE WALK HOME
At the start of the century you decide to walk home. Snow has been falling and the air makes your face prickle like branches are brushing against it. You shoulder your burden and begin. The packed-down snow has elevated the sidewalk. If you wanted to sit on a bench to wait for the bus you'd have to climb down to get to it. But you don't want the bus; you want to walk. Your pack begins to ache so you shift it to the other shoulder. You could call your roommate and he'd rush out to get you; it's the start of the century and you shouldn't be walking. Out. Alone. At night. Walking. But why would you rush home? At home you're always sitting around waiting for a man to call. Always his name is Tom. So you keep walking. Finally you reach your house. At the back door an icicle has formed, so large it reaches the ground. You think you should tell someone about it, but no one's home. Without going in you pick up your pack and begin again. Even now you're still walking. Perhaps if I look out my window I'll see you.
The Secret History