As I drove on Howard Avenue through the countryside that Saturday night, I let the memories of her trickle into mind. And I smiled in a bittersweet manner, because I was hitting an unfamiliar bump in the road. A reality without her was something I’d become to accept. Yet all my moments of weakness drew me back to her doorstep. I’d sweep by her address, glance at her empty driveway. I’d never seen her house in the summertime. The streets looked different, nostalgic vestiges of the older suburbs, and images of lemonade stands and children chasing moths flickered in my head. This was the neighbourhood of a picture-perfect childhood, a distant pleasure from the façade of my own, where the bricks and mortar of millionaire-dollar houses sheltered the blood and spit of a loveless reality.
And then my old haunts boil, causing me to grip onto the steering wheel tighter. I cannot perceive the world as she does. These sickly notions of unconditional love and storybook weddings taint my favourite radio stations, and so I resort to the evening silence. I loved her at one point, but I’ve come to learn that stone angels do not cry.