A Memory

I walk down the street with my head held high, gliding in high heels and perfect make up. I wear a serene half-smile on my face, making little nods and curtsies to passerby I may or may not know. A young man leaning against a wall cracks a joke in my direction, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette.

"Where you goin' lookin' so pretty, girl?"

I turn and walk backwards for a moment, laughing as I reply, arms stretched wide in an invitation to the world: "Why, anywhere and everywhere I can go, good sir!"

He grins back at me and nods. "You alright, girl, you alright."

I continue along my way, feeling expansive and connected to everyone I pass, touching lives with my high-heeled glide and half-smile.

But I am fundamentally, painfully, alone.

It is not, I think, that I do not play well with others. To the contrary, my boss when I worked at a small short-order restaurant praised me for my ability to train new employees and my coworkers often commented to each other about how much "the customers love her!"

Rather, I believe this isolation to be a result of the transience of the connections I forge. While I may exchange jovial snark with the young man smoking at the edge of the sidewalk, I will never get his phone number. I will not see him again.

I do not dig into the abundance of small ways I influence others. I do not try to pull them into the broader scope of my life. I continue down the sidewalk, sassy, sweet, and solitary.

In many ways, I am little more than a bright, shiny, memory.