A collection of lasts, then: this last mug of tea, this last familiar grouping of faces, this last northeast stairwell door shutting. Flashes of how new it all was not so long ago burst like blood vessels, erupt into dreams, leak and dribble out from half-focused thoughts.
In their eyes I see the smiles detach. Once clasped formally in orbit, we disengage and float. Daily reality will become periodic nostalgia: an anecdote if lucky, or just a brief squint, nod, and exhale. Processes break down into addresses, from “I did that once,” to “I was there once.”
Which road looks clearer as you are walking away?