Do you remember that time when we all stood around on the grass in a circle? And the seagulls and pigeons were posturing in the square, hunting for breadcrumbs, running from children and taking wing when they got too close. There was six of us, together. And now it's just me left alone. In the spring at the end of the winter when a single blossom illuminated itself to the heavens on a tree branch. To soak up the starlight. And we laughed on in ignorance as though we all had until the end of our lives to enjoy ourselves.
On one of my shelves I keep the things that we discovered together. Music albums and movie ticket stubs. I used to keep photos until one day the eyes started to scare me because it was so easy to think that beyond the still face of the photo we were alive, and back in time, and we were alright. I also keep things - knick knacks, reminders. A letter or two. An eraser that was drawn on and carved so he looked like a king with beard and crown. Little things you give to people that you expect them to just throw away, and then you see them at their house a year later, or in a box when you help them move. And you say to them "oh, you kept this." But you don't take the time to understand why.
Then it's summer and everyone's grown up now. The sunset which sounded like such a good time is forgotten in a cloudless sky as you all drift through the streets, doing things, or talking about doing things. The night time is warmer than the day and your problems are simple matters of location, distance, and time. Sometimes out of boredom someone will fabricate a concern for you all to prop up together with your many hands. Or something serious happens and you're supportive but they have to deal with it alone. Nothing's changed a week later.
Then suddenly you've grown old and scarce. Your friends now lounge in piles, same place every week, and there's a lot of them. You hang out with people you used to know you didn't know. There are all these worlds that meet just for a second so that you could step off one planet and on to the next, just before it spins away. To soak up the starlight. Bask in the sun as it bounces off the moon at night, only to hang around bizarrely well into the morning.
At this point the seasons get scared and start to run by. You worry that they'll take flight if you get too close like all those seagulls and pigeons used to do back when there was nothing else. You look for opportunities to jump back on to your old planets so you can monitor the possible changes and compare them to those that have cropped up in your memories. But what you find is your old home planet unchanged when every day your memories grow wilder and stranger. Do you remember that too?
So the six of you never get a chance at another meet-up. You stand in a circle with the entire universe in between you, spread out so that the closest distance between any of you is just as far away as you are from all the others. Like any animal some of you are dead, or pretending to be, but you miss the living ones more. So you do this thing or that thing you said you would. And your problems are matters of strength, motivation, and time. You look forward to the day when you can look back on things. So you shuffle busily down the street at lunch time. Thinking about things to yourself.
(whew)