I used to walk around the neighborhood ….after the clubs closed, bars were winding down, friends said goodbye.
There was nothing to fear back then. Didn't matter if it was summer, winter or in between…there was just the echo of my heels hitting pavement, the click of the traffic light, the sound of my breath. I can still remember which buildings had the most interesting design on their facade. Ornamental masonry around doorways, faces, gargoyles, tenement names engraved in stone, letters etched backwards. Some had wrought iron fences leading to stairways to basements. I’d let my hand run across the tops, tracing the fleur de lis with my fingers. Sometimes I’d stop to sit on a stoop. There I would follow the loops and swirls under the banisters. A light would go on behind closed drapes, muffled conversation, and then darkness. I would think of the people who lived behind those drapes, their family structure, what they were doing. Were they sleeping? Watching TV? Reading a book?...Making love?
Were they lonely?

The sidewalk had old circles of gum and other things I’d rather not dwell on. I used to wonder how many generations of Juicy Fruit were accumulated there. Chalk, paint, cracks…break your mother’s back…a sparkle of broken glass like diamonds strewn towards the beginnings of a tree that was daring the concrete to stop it. Breathing in the aroma of baking bread (was it late night or early morning?) I’d start to head for home. The closer to I got to Prospect, the slower I walked. As I came up to my courtyard, I’d stop to listen to the sounds of the night. Sitting on the step, I’d tell myself “five more minutes” If I was honest I’d admit I just didn't want to go home, not in five minutes, five hours, or five years. I’d keep walking. To where I didn't know and so I’d stand, turn and walk upstairs, stopping at each landing until the sky became that translucent indigo that said morning was here and there was nowhere to hide.