A few days ago, my partner and I wandered downtown on our second date since the little one arrived almost nine months ago. Dinner and a show. I haven’t been in our downtown core since the beginning of the pandemic, only stopping there once for the art gallery, and never in the evening. We didn’t have much of a walk about that time. This evening we had some time to wander the streets before heading over.
I was surprised by how much the energy of the place had changed. Some of the busiest streets felt deserted. People gathered in little groups outside of venues or inside restaurants. There didn’t seem to be too much ambling around.
I walked up and down streets that I’ve visited hundreds of times now. Landmarks where we gathered, nursing broken hearts and lattes. Entire blocks we walked complaining about difficult work projects and celebrating with relief when those ended. Dark restaurants where you met with friends who were in town for a few days, and sunday brunches that were underwhelming save for the company you ate them with.
I realized that while the energy of the place had changed, so have I in the time. As I said to a friend, I haven’t been in the downtown core since turning a new decade. And while it shouldn’t seem like a big sea change, something inside has shifted.
It’s interesting how the brain lightly dusts old memories so that only some of the essence can seep through, but never the whole experience. We can’t re-live things in their full technicolor wonder. And perhaps that’s a good thing, so that we can create room to be slightly different people. If everything was relevant, nothing would be.
And while faint nostalgia ran through me like the spring breeze coming off the ocean, I suddenly felt grateful for the journey that had taken me down those streets - that I wouldn’t want to revisit the same way again. Which has led me to where I am. And for once in a long time, I missed the comfort of green trees and settling birds at dusk in my own home. A wonder what a bit of distance can do.
While buildings framed with cherry blossoms in the summer return every year, I think none of us ever really will. There is grace in that, I think. And relief.