At That

I walk downtown, past the fire rubble for the first time. I see dead and gone Christmas wreaths tied to one part of the fence, a small, plastic wreath in the middle, remains of a marred temple visible against blue sky. It's black and blue and makes me sad.

I take pictures, not with my camera. Proceed, I say. Go like it didn't happen. But it did, I reason with myself. It did happen.

When I arrive at the cafe I am alone. I choose a seat in the back corner and try to read the paper. "People are dying," I think. People are always dying.

I want company so I make a call. We talk. And talk. And argue, maybe. But our arguments don't matter because in the end we agree--about something, if nothing.

It feels right to leave it at that.

Leave. It. At. That.