... and in those moments I let myself wonder if this might be the start of our very own love story.

I imagine him picking up his shovel and returning to work. What choice does he have? One shovel-full at a time.

It was never in his power to hold on to people, make them stay if they didn’t want to. And once people had gone they never came back.

I was alone again with the specters of memory.

If you haven’t thought it in a year, throw it out. Ditto if it is out of style, has holes in it, or doesn’t fit you. It may have never...