Last night I walked my brief walk home more slowly, without my usual stream of music. I noticed the waxy glow of streetlights against ochre-colored leaves. The empty park, looking forlorn with its absence of dogs and children. The row of red and white headlights, flanking the river, now more visible in the early gloom. And the uneven array of lit windows, offering me a quick glimpse of others' lives—a shopping bag tossed on a table, a man's back as he walks across the room, a television set flickering in the distance.
And as I took pleasure in noticing these small things, I felt wistful too. The flashes of warmth and light against the darkening night made me lonely, made me sad to walk into my own quiet box. I wished I were walking into a bright home, full of movement and bustle and brightness and chatter. I'm usually scared by these things, but I miss them too.
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