Sidewalk

Reflections on my Time Last Year

Trevor Dunning

My feet press against the soles of my shoes which press against cracked pavement. Silhouetted by the sun, my shadow chases me. Imagery pretentious. It’s all the same. Sweat hits my lip and I’m back in bed. I sit up. I turn on the light. I put my foot down and my feet press against the soles of my shoes which press against cracked pavement and I’m back. I stand center frame as memories pass me by, scenes from my life and others before, interconnected. 

I find a memory from last year and reach out. Left in definition by fair weather friends and false nostalgic longing, I watch the scene play out. I stood in a three-person dorm surrounded by people I’d never met before, aside from the two I came with. A single TV atop a desk illuminated the room, along with fairy lights looped around beds. The room warmed with each passing breath. I can see it in front of me, the ripped baggy jeans, oversized graphic t-shirts, and the type of repulsive nonchalance that oozed out of everyone’s eyeliner. Chatter filled the dungeon, backdropped by a playlist of indie-rock bands. 

“Anyone want a cigarette,” somebody said.

We’re outside now, my indifference winning out to my two friends who wanted to smoke. We went by a railing, overlooking water or maybe traintracks, I can’t remember. White breath filled the air intermingling with heavy smoke. I stood watching with nothing to say, a feeling of dense snow growing in my chest. I’m back inside again feeling increasingly dissonant. I got my stuff and left. 

Going down fluorescent hallways, I exit the building onto the sidewalk. My feet press against the souls of my shoes which press against cracked pavement. Street lights welcomed me as I walked home. I remember looking up and seeing the snow falling from the sky, that feeling when you notice the most mundane of details, it fueled me. I stand on icy pavement backdropped by trees and brick buildings, the snow making its way down. I was filled with peace, solitude, that feeling you get on a quiet late walk home where it's just you and the elements. Moments of quiet, moments with no one else around. Alone but not longing. I see the lights of the skyline as I pass by the bridge, the fog erasing the buildings. I step down stairs and take a right. My feet press against the soles of my shoes which press against carpet and I’m back in bed. 

It’s over. The memory blurs past me, my vision blinded by white. Then I’m back here in my room, sitting in a chair, writing. Memories are something to hold on to, latch on to,

dangerously. They are not a collection of individual facts but a remembrance of our emotions. But the ways we feel impact the ways we remember. The things we remember, more so the things we write may not have happened the way they did in our minds. That’s not even deep or even thoughtful, that’s something that I’ve been fed for the past 10 years. Every time we think back to a single memory our brains change something about it, but does it change the way we feel? Does the benefit of hindsight try to frame our memories to make them more monumental than they were? Our emotions are always true but our memories are not. This is a story about a bad party where I got to experience a nice walk home, not entirely novel, not entirely unique. Last year I wanted to have experiences I’d never had before, experiences that I would eventually go on to obtain, and experiences that while I don’t regret them, I look at with boredom. 

As the memory leaves me I’m filled with a nostalgic melancholy. My foot pressed against the carpet. Sunlight pours in through the blinds, telling me to get up. I wipe the sweat from my lip and stand. The moments we stand in now will become stories for tomorrow. I close the door, lock it, and silhouetted by the sun, once again, I step out onto cracked pavement, new pavement. I look for new things now, aspirations turn into realities turn into new stories. Will it be the same?