Never Come This Way Again
Just spent a melancholy half-hour on the bus, listening to the Decemberists' 2011 album The King is Dead . Oh, the first half-hour of the ride wasn't bad, read Enos, listened to a book about crusades, but the second half, staring out the window listening to the music that had so moved me a year ago, I got to nostalgia. I'm constitutionally prone to nostalgia, especially at the turning of the seasons: late spring and early fall. This time I started thinking of all the people who used to be such a part of my life, part of the routines of my days and weeks, who simply aren't any more. They've moved or I've moved and they keep moving and I keep moving. Jon Stoddard who went to Utah or Jon Johnson, who just went 20 miles south; Carrie von Bosie, who used to run grad student lunch, or Beth who used to haunt the institute building. Amy and Lindsey who I used to live with. My sister who is now two moves away from San Antonio--I don't even turn onto the street by h