I tried to add up how far we’ve walked together, it must be miles and miles by now but I don’t know how long it takes to meander through the Great Park so I can’t quite reach a number. I know that today was five miles. Because the three-mile route we chose wasn’t long enough.
We always carefully walk with a distance between us. It’s been months since I have been opposite you, we used to be opposite each other all the time. Across desks, tables at coffee shops and restaurants or on a train heading to a gig of a band that nobody else seems to have heard of.
For months now I have walked next to you.
The conversation hasn’t changed or rather the way our conversation moves fluidly from story to discussion to facts about a new thing we’ve learnt hasn’t changed. Its hard to remember sometimes where a story started but you understand all of it. Sometimes I wonder if I have to say things out loud for you to know them.
You’ve learnt so much in these strange months. I can’t look at a bird and not think of you. Which means I think of you as often as I think of my grandmother these days. When I spot a bird of prey, I make a mental note to tell you and inevitably I usually forget. I saw a Kestrel recently (or maybe months ago now); it was hovering over a field just like the one we saw together. I’m sure you remember it. I think about it because your voice lit up with excitement as you told me all about how a Kestrel can hover in the wind because it’s so small and light. It can face itself into the head wind and angle its wings so that it remains still; that way it can survey the ground for its prey. That’s right, isn’t it? I’m sure that’s what you told me as the wind whipped cold across our faces and my dog skittered about between us. We didn’t see the falcon dive for its prey we carried on walking. I haven’t ever seen a Kestrel dive for its prey. I’m sure if I do ever see one, I will remember to tell you.
We talk about travel plans, family plans, house plans, people we know, work, and how we fit into this strange society we have become so aware of. Our lives converge and cross in strange places knowing the same people but in different ways. We talk so much that it’s your voice I now know the most closely. Your pronunciations, the laugh that flirts on the edges of your speech when you’re telling me something joyful or ridiculous because you use the same laugh for both. I don’t know if you know that, well you do now. It’s the same laugh that lives in the back of your mouth for every occasion.
It feels natural now to walk alongside you and tell you all the things I haven’t told other people whilst looking at the path we are walking instead of into your eyes. I’m starting to wonder if I remember what colour they are… wait yes, they are green! I do remember because it was on a quiz you once wrote about yourself that we all did in the office. It’s a lifetime ago. It’s a memory from before.
We don’t stop for photos. Not of each other. We don’t document that we are together with wide cheesey grins and thumbs up making light of having to meet for a walk instead of our usual pizza out. But now that I think about it, we rarely document any of the things we’ve done together. I have that one photo that I always share on your birthday. It’s so long ago now I wonder if we would look different if we recreated it. I don’t feel different but the changes in my face might be too small to notice. And I don’t know if you look different because, well I’m always two metres away from you these days.
We take it seriously, being distant, meeting as early as possible to avoid the crowds. I don’t mind so much I’m too tired to be afraid any more but it’s important to you. So, it is important to me. Important enough that that we haven’t snuck into each other’s cars for a chat in the warm. Important enough I haven’t hugged you in over a year now even though I know you’ve needed it on more than one occasion.
The car park is now heaving as it always is, as the crowds we want to avoid start to flood in. Suddenly there are people all around us and it feels strange and exposed, I don’t tell you all the things I could tell you about how it felt to walk five miles with you. So we rush. I’ll text it to you later. It’s hard to make a new plan but the promise of one stays with us and I know it’s inevitable so I don’t have to worry.
I leave you unhugged. It’s such a strange goodbye.
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