The body of a seagull, wing splayed across the yellow line, blood splattered in its wake.
I tap the brakes, swerve around the carcass, and remember what seagulls look like when they walk, scuttling across parking lots for French fries. And I cry.
A crumpled scrap of paper I find on the library floor, scribbled with pencil: "I love you :) you can borrow my headphones and watch Netflix if you want."
I smile and think about people loving each other, in their imperfect, quirky little ways, and how they really do want to make each other happy, but sometimes they can't. And I cry.
A courtyard in the middle of a nursing home, a square plot of grass and cement, flanked by walls and windows and dying men watching game shows on television.
I discover the door and stare out at the sky, high heaven swirling in ice blue splendor, the almost imperceptible drift of the sun. And I cry.
Time passes. I see friends beside me, hear them laughing, hear myself laughing with them, and yet I know about calendars and clocks, and roads leading nowhere, and I know about space between, and cities fading in and out of focus along the freeway. And I know about cards in the mail, Christmas and birthdays and all that, fewer every year, and I know about ceremonies and certificates and everything that comes with it.
I know. Everyone knows. And most people laugh and turn up the radio. But I cry.
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