He puts on Pandora. Trying to fill the empty space of our home with music. For him, it is background noise. Something to break the hard edges of silence. For me, it is the soundtrack of my life playing. Every song conjuring a moment.
Songs that bring memories of mornings spent sobbing in the shower. Trying to convince myself, that someday the pain will become something I can live with. Memories of my CD Walkman headphones, walking up Revere Street so sure that where I was heading was where I suppose to be going. Driving over the bridge, the city of New Orleans behind me, the East breaking through the sunrise and fog, cigarette burning, radio on loud. The walk home through Downtown Crossing where every step felt like I was both running away and towards something all at once. Broken dishes. Loud voices. Expensive wine. Sleepless nights. Sushi. Abandoned dreams. New Orleans, Boston, Maine, Savannah, Virginia, Manchester, Pensacola, California, Ohio.
Memories of the person I used to be, regrets of who I am and the knowledge that I can not change a thing. That I can never go back.
The song switches again. I am 18, walking home drunk through the Boston Common. Trying to convince myself that I wasn't doing the walk of shame. That it has been my choice to leave your warm bed at 3am. That everything was going to be OK.