He was still singing about California but in a different key or the wrong key or with something that made it unrecognizable. It didn’t sound as sweet as I remembered. I suppose I didn’t need all of those sounds strung anymore. Or perhaps I’d grown out of the game we were playing. Nothing about that carrot on a string felt good anymore. The ambient noise of his memory was taking up too much precious space. That last trip back helped me to see it. Unfiltered and less romanticized. The measurable difference time had made. We had grown up and away from each other. Floating in different directions with no trace of our tracks. They kept telling me it’s dangerous to look back anyways. Finally I can walk along the river and watch the water drift back and forth from the edge of the city without ever thinking of you.
