witness to an ending...
It was good to talk to her on the train ride home - the easy highlight of a rough day, for certain. She always sees the good, and smiles defiantly at adversity. My stop came, and I stepped off the train into a blustery wind that floated flurries like plastic bags through the air.

I took a deep breath and tried to see the cold and the snow as she would. A beautiful sight indeed, despite the bitter breeze clawing at my cheeks. What's a little blood in the eyes if it brings rose colored hues, after all?

Down the steps and darting to the crosswalk, I clasped my keys as I always do. It makes no sense to grab them so far away from the car, I'm not saving myself any time. I halt my stride and scout my opening - a true sport on Fullerton at rush hour - and with a quick hop I'm on my way across.

Trash on the ground is typically ignorable in a metropolis. Not today.

I reach the other side of the street and there it lies. Where are the cameras? Scenes like this are only shown on film.

There lay dozens of photos, cut and ripped in half, strewn across the sidewalk. Chicago's brutal wind screeches through an open window as I peer down.

A wedding, a birthday, a family, a vacation, a shared romantic moment. As a part of me I thought was dead comes rising from the ashes, I'm glad that about half of them are upside down. Empathy has returned with a vengeance and an army of tears surges forth, spears raised. Heat consumes my ducts as ice grows outward from them on my exposed face.

The torn photos become movies, memories. The clock zooms forward as my mind takes me into the apartment above. The fight plays out like a movie. Projected from my retina out onto the back of my eyelids, they rage. She's left bruised and leans back into the corner, sliding down the walls to the floor as he storms out the door. She reaches over and grabs the shoebox, flipping through memories deemed meaningless. Overcome, she holds back nausea and knows it's time to let go. A rip for closure, a tear for reconciliation, she lifts the window and lets winter's frigid fingers probe inside. Into her hands she offers tattered memories, carried on swirling air to the sidewalk below.

There they rest, an open wound for all to see. Scattered photographs lie at my feet as I return from my mind's eye to my real ones, making my way to the car to get home.