letters to sam • sgc

i

I love walks.

Maybe that's something your seventy year old grandmother would say. Maybe that's what she's doing right now. She's probably brought her dog along with her, stopping to talk to all the neighbors about what a lovely day it is.

I am neither seventy, nor a grandmother. I also don't have a dog. I do, however, enjoy nice weather. And trains, but that's not important right now.

There's something about following the sidewalk and losing track of time that is so enticing. I love feeling the breeze at the crest of a hill, and the sun hitting my face, but not in an unpleasant way. Not abrasive. Just gentle, barely there, but enough.

I don't like walks for the exercise. I like them for the pretense of exercise, and the reality of pretending I'm someone else; someone cooler, and prettier, and more carefree for anyone else walking by to marvel at.

It's hard to escape into a walk in the city, though. There's too much noisy traffic, too many people on every street, too many little things you're supposed to be paying attention to so you don't end up on one of those late night news reports, starring as some poor abducted girl that'll be forgotten about the second the television gets shut off.

But I wanted to go to a university farther away. I wanted to experience new things. I thought I would become some different, cooler person; maybe the girl I pretend to be on walks. But after three years in the city, the summer is the best part. Aside from the freedom of working, I get to be at home. Living in the tame suburbs. I can walk everyday, all day if I wanted, no matter the weather.

It's not always sunny, but it is always time for a walk.

Some days the walks aren't as peaceful as I would hope. If it's a warm day, maybe just between the cusp of spring and summer weather, everyone and their mother will be outside, weeding their gardens, washing their cars, walking their dogs, doing every possible activity under the sun. And then walks get nerve wracking. I get paranoid. Scared of every little thing and every person I walk by.

No one realizes how much they stare at others. I think we all forget that people can see us seeing them sometimes. I'm scared of their judgement; of my clothes, of my wired earbuds, of the way I'm walking, or how slow I'm going. That's why I pretend. To not care.

There's almost always some old women out tending to their gardens or some young guy walking his dog, unless it's pouring. You'd think I'd know these people, having lived here for so long, but the most I'd ever interacted with them was a nod and a smile every once in a while.

I do take note of their faces, though. Of all the little details around me. The color of the shutters. The cars in the driveway, showing who's safe at home and who's out in the world. I like to name the houses. The American House (they have a million flags hanging all over), The Fire House (something about the brickwork makes me think of a fire station), The God House (there's little Bible verses engraved into the sidewalk out front and a sign about worshipping the Lord hung by their door), and so on and so forth. Each house has its significance to me.

I was a little upset when I saw a 'for sale' sign propped up outside of one of my favorite houses when I came home for spring break a few months back. I had always admired their garden, and the way the lawn was always green and as close to perfect as possible. The way the outside of a house is cared for changes with who's living there, though, and I was nervous whoever moved in wouldn't like the flowerbeds or the little stone path. I liked consistency, although witnessing little developments and changes can be interesting. Unless they're bad changes. Then it's just depressing.

Their garden had been a little neglected, though, so I hoped whoever was lucky enough to buy the house wasn't going to leave it as is.

My familiar yard greets me as my feet carry me back home, my mind having wandered a little too far for me to really notice to where I was going. Although it's always a little disappointing to come back out of my world, it's a relief to my legs, usually starting to ache at this point. I could get lost in a walk for a good few hours, still having yet to see each and every corner of the neighborhood before I realize it's probably time to go home.