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There is the path we walked a few hours away from home. You were ahead of me, your long legs weaving in between the bookcases of your backyard. I didn't tell you this that day, but I was thinking about you walking ahead of me, and wondered if it would always be like this. 

In the time I lived alone, you know, I always took the long way home from work. It's not that I didn't want to be there, but I knew that it was there, even if at a distance. Could it have been that afternoon in July that you knew I would always be here when you turned around to say This is where the bee's nest hung, extending your long arm to the top of a tree I could not name but would remember if I saw it if even in the dead of winter. The path covered for a little while, too long for my warm skin, too cold to stay long. 

 

[image: Karen Juliano]