The rain broke while I was halfway across the park. Sun through the last drops, a kid laughing at a puddle. I stopped under a tree and stood there longer than I needed to. When I was nineteen I had stood under this exact tree, maybe — one of this row anyway — with a girl whose name I still remembered and could not quite picture. We had waited out a storm. She had been wearing someone else's jacket. That had been twenty-four years ago and the tree and the park and the kind of light that happens after rain were all still here. I walked on, carrying it.
