Walking Down W Peach
It’s chilly in the A tonight. Not horrible—we’ve had ice storms and snow and all types of unprecedented weather this year for our southern belle. But even so, the air is cool and crisp, a stern reminder that it’s still winter here in the South.
I step off 5th St. and onto the Tech Square Plaza.
The walk down W. Peachtree St. is a hike I know well from the many times I’ve walked it. Traffic is light; everyone is watching the Super Bowl.
Well—almost everyone.
I’m walking home. Walking the mile between my best friends’ condo and my own.
Salt and sand litter the sidewalks as I move from Midtown to Downtown. An uncommon artifact for us, even at this time of year. Southern winters are typically very mild. This one has reminded Atlanteans that we are not outside of winter’s icy grasp.
I look at my reflection in the glass of the skyscraper bases as I pass. It’s almost like taking stock of this version of myself. It’s a small nod to 38, an acknowledgment of her guiding presence in my world. As I watch my reflection, I try to remember the versions of me that have been reflected in these same windows before. In another space of my life.
Many versions of me have strolled this familiar path.
This walk between their home and my own.
I try to remember the man who loved the boy—
I don’t remember him anymore, though. I only know the man who is here now.
Living is like perpetually gettin’ a new pair of shoes. One minute you aren’t sure about them. I mean, they just aren’t “broke’ in,” you know? But before you know it, your feet hurt, and it’s time for a new pair.
I gaze in the windows of the Emory parking deck as I pass.
Almost home.
Home.
Out of the cold.
It’s funny, this life.
One minute you just have it all figured out, you know?
And then it’s just all upside down.
It’s like trying to get a cake layer out of the tin. Sometimes it comes out beautifully in one turn, and then other times the goddamn thing sticks—and when it finally does come out (after you’ve scalped it with a butter knife and shaken it like a martini in an earthquake), it’s a blocky, crumbled, hellish disaster.
That’s how I feel lately.
Like that crumbled, blocky, hell cake.
One last windowpane reflects me back to me.
My eyes lock with my eyes for a moment—
I see you. You’re doin’ just fine.
Just past the MARTA, and we’re home—
It’s cold in the A, but not for much longer.
The turn of the world is just around the bend.