evening walk

he takes the same walk every evening, a routine that's been etched into his bones. twenty years, and he's never missed a day. the streets are familiar, the houses and the trees. he knows every step, every crack in the pavement. it's a meditation, one that he's not sure he's aware of. he thinks about his day, about the things he's done and the things he's left undone. he thinks about his family, about his wife and his children. they're all grown up now, living their own lives. he's proud of them, but also a little sad. he misses the way they used to be, the way they used to look up to him. he turns a corner, and the street opens up. it's a wide boulevard, lined with trees and shops. he passes by the park, where children are playing on the swings. it's a sound that's both familiar and foreign, one that takes him back to a different time. he keeps walking, his feet carrying him forward. he's not sure where he's going, or what he's looking for. maybe it's just the sensation of movement, the feeling of being alive. he crosses the street, and enters a new neighborhood. the houses are different here, the streets narrower. he feels a sense of disorientation, one that's both pleasant and unpleasant. like the way the world can be both familiar and strange, all at the same time. by aniruddh menon