November 30, 2018.

Untitled, 2018.

With almost a week of grey skies, the days feel like a holding pattern. Yesterday, I walked along the lake, under the bridge, the highway above. The muffled sound of steady traffic matching the volume of the low, slow waves; the air cold enough to need a tissue. Along the water’s edge, I found a wide border, a myriad of little shells pressed into the sand, like they had rolled off the water and settled in to pass the winter. I started walking back towards the downtown, shells crunching under my boots, cutting into the dampened atmosphere to the point I couldn’t help but count my steps.

When the path turned to concrete, I found the boardwalk, empty. Somebody had pressed pause. Even the holiday lights seemed to be waiting.