Almost Remembering

…and suddenly the light between

the buildings isn’t just light anymore

but something closer to an answer.

The way your foot finds the curb

without looking,

muscle memory threading through

the gaps in conscious—

Wait.

Was I supposed to

turn left

at the pharmacy?

The one with the blue

sign that always reminds me

of my mother’s handwriting,

how she’d loop

the Y in “grocery” like a small rebellion against the ordinariness

of needing

milk again,

bread again.

The same fluorescent aisles

stretching toward a checkout

where the cashier asks

“paper or plastic”

and I realize

I’ve been holding my breath for three blocks, thinking

about that thing you said

about time being a construct

while watching the crosswalk signal

count down from ten, nine, eight—

how we measure everything

in arrivals and departures

but never the space between

footsteps, the pause before

deciding which direction

leads home,

which leads

to that other life I keep

almost remembering…