Stillwater in The First Life

I’m making friends.
I’ve been confident and dry-humored and charming. If you knew me, that would make sense.
I can go out alone and not fear..
Slowly making bar families and catching the eye of a couple tattooed bartenders who buy me drinks.
I’ve been riding this line between severe anxiety, and liberation. I still crave comfort. I still think of John every day.
I still pace and pick and fret.

All the places in my town are brick.
In some spaces you can see it peeking through the pavement. Resilient and red and beautiful.
The pubs are friendly and loud and up all night with young people. Lonely people. College graduates struggling at part time jobs, full of bad decisions and concerns.
Each rowhouse has a tiny garden, tiny yard, and wrought iron fence with a gate that clings shut loudly.
They’re all painted red, grey, or lavender. Aged beautifully, with tall ceilings and flat roofs.
The people are friendly and aware. We border young professionals and drug dealers. Alcoholics sit outside the corner store with their brown bags…or out in front of the laundromat.

I have been making time to sit in silence. Stretch. Breathe deep. Sometimes when I do, I feel this creeping sadness claw up my throat. I swallow hard, like the handful of vitamins I finally remember to take every morning. With a breath and clenched teeth it passes and I never know why it came. I wonder momentarily before replacing that wonder with worrying over something new.

I told a friend about my feelings.
Hoping he could help bridge the gap. I just keep thinking that now is the time, that this nagging has a purpose. I’m just too afraid to find out alone.