Today I went off the trail, followed the dry creekbed instead. As I walked along, little sludgy puddles appeared, and later bigger sludgy puddles, choked with algae. I sat on a rock for a long, long time, listening to raindrops pattering nearly six months' worth of dry leaves. The smell of dry grass wetting, the shudder of sludgy puddles recieving new water.


I know that he doesn't speak to me because he doesn't understand. I couldn't really explain it to him; I don't entirely understand myself. Before I left, we were looking at apartments, choosing furniture, and discussing baby names (Castilleja for a girl). No warning. I came back and my mind had changed. There was no explanation, not really, not in any way I could articulate. I didn't know why I needed to end our relationship, I just knew it was true.


It is stunning how thoroughly that doesn't make it easy. Today I left the trail because the trail holds too many memories: in this park we walked through every major fight and most of the minor ones. Here we decided to become monogomous, to wait to move in together, to move across the country together. Here we came for nearly every milestone our relationship held. I have little doubt that this park would have witnessed a proposal if it hadn't seen an ending instead.


On the rocks beside me, lichen opened their apothecia to the rain, birds muttered softly to each other. I could hear the bulldozers working on the development down the road. Wind blew the drops in waves, scattering them on sand that grew slowly dark. I don't know what the metaphor means, but I know it is true.