Could've been anyone

Ambling past the corner where Saturday night events are stapled in bright hues to wooden panels, meets a building that uses the smokescreen of "condemned" to harbor unfinished business with the mirth of resilient residents, my gaze brushes past the mural. My heart is drawn to it, far more than my eyes, which are now stretching as far to the right as possible to avoid the brilliant colors, flaking off in old age. Limbs of softly painted branches curve around scenes of each season. I remember stopping there and eyeing the entire artwork from top to bottom. It had been warm and exciting. I had peeled away a strip of white paint and remarked that I could draw on it. I withdrew my black sharpie from the side pocket of my jeans and held it out in front of me, relinquishing my sword to its rightful place. Black ink absorbed the strip, curving lines like the acrylic trees. We had to keep going though, so I carried it with us, accumulating a pile of scavenged items as I so often did on these walks. I remember that your interest in the mural extended as far as a quick glance at the sunsets and winter scenery. You were content to stand there behind me though, as I took it all in. You could've been anyone in that respect. But at times when I find myself sitting on the leather bound stool, snapping my wrist against the edge of the rosewood and plucking the curled iron, I wish it were you that sat opposite me, fingering complimentary melodies. It's terribly futile to think of these things now, so my eyes won and guided the rest of me back to the concrete slabs, stacked one in front of the other, stretching farther than I cared to see.