Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 17

it after he had gone, flip through these pages, and remember that this street, once, had a pulse.

Mark returned to Spring Street at dusk, not for nostalgia, but because dusk was the only time the present loosened its grip. The light, slanted and forgiving, gave the glass towers a softer hue, the glare diminished. Even the shadows seemed unsure of themselves, stretching toward corners where memory still lingered.

He traced the cracked pavement with his foot, landing on a fading chalk drawing. It was some child’s portrait, long washed out, but only partially gone. The smile was still there, barely. Like the city itself, barely.

"We used to build stories here," he whispered. "Now we manufacture moments."

He passed the storefront where the old florist used to weave baskets of violets and honeysuckle for lovers and funerals alike. Now it was a minimalist gallery, white and empty. Nothing bloomed. The place was proud in its claimed “celebration of silence.” Mark found it maddening how the city now curated even its voids.

He paused at the now ignored, gas lamp post where he once kissed Naomi after her poetry reading. Her words had filled the air