Flowers in Hand

Crossing Walnut Street Bridge is the closest thing I have to a walk down Memory Lane. It’s just outside my everyday route, and perhaps because it’s always disorienting to see a body of water, each trip stands out clearly in my memory. I once had an assignment to wander into Philadelphia in the spirit of the flâneur. (The flâneur was of great interest to modernist writers, and therefore of great interest to a class about the modern, urban experience.) I remember sitting on a bench by the Schuylkill River, trying to be pensive and profound, when really all I could think about was the cold wind smacking my face and my nose running like crazy and was there maybe a CVS nearby, so I could purchase a pack of travel tissues. On another trip, I remember hopping some fence for a photoshoot on the train tracks, another exploring a bike path down by the Schuylkill River, planning an impossible videoshoot that would be canceled due to snow. Of course, there were all the frustrated walks to the Apple Store. (My phone has broken an obscene amount of times.) And then there was that one where I was weary and heartbroken.

There’s always a transition somewhere along the walk. It’s like a cloak of anonymity is suddenly draped over my shoulders. I stop scanning the crowd for acquaintances and friends, and start to think, reflect. I always soak in this transition; this route is the same one I take to the train station on trips back home, so I’m reminded of the unparalleled joy of finishing exams and submitting essays, nothing on my mind but the home-cooked meal waiting for me in Lorton, Virginia. This time, I pass the train station, and I pass two faded wreaths—a memorial for someone named Zachary. On most of my walks across Walnut Street Bridge, I likely would have never noticed this memorial or really much else, too absorbed in thoughts, conversation, or frustration about my phone. But this time I notice how gray the Schuylkill is, how gray the concrete is, how gray the buildings are, how gray and dull everything is—everything except the Phillies mural on the other end of the bridge, bright red.

I pass the Rite Aid where I once purchased Medium Auburn hair dye at midnight because the CVS on campus was closed, and my best friend knew that dyeing my hair wouldn’t solve my depression but it just might. My past self feels so far away, like if I closed my eyes I could see her frantically walking up and down the hair care aisle. I smile to myself because it became a story to tell with big hand gestures and feigned franticness—and my hair really did look good. I also smile because empathy doesn’t even begin to describe the relationship between our past and present selves. I feel a pang of love for the girl running up and down the aisle, the kind of self-love I wish I could have had at the time.

I’m just about to cross the street and presumably move on to another memory when out of nowhere I see a man on a bicycle, with flowers in one hand—Carson. He waves at me because he’s photographed so many of our dance shows, and then I remember, of course… it’s Valentine’s Day.

Just a few hours before, I had a half-baked plan to reconcile with someone and transform my solo walk into a date because… it’s Valentine’s Day. I got to class early, but not too early, and waited for him to get out of class in what happened to be the classroom right next to mine. But the moment came and went, and I concluded that I guess we were still ignoring each other and that February 14th was just a day like any other.

Although I’ve been single for most of my life, I had never harbored any resentment towards Valentine’s Day. I love candy hearts. In elementary school, I’d craft my “mailbox” out of an old shoebox and giftwrap, ready to give and receive those small valentines with cartoon characters and bad puns. I did feel weird one year that I was third wheeling my parents (which they assured me wasn’t the case), but usually, I just take it as a day to spend with friends and enjoy love in its many forms.

But there was something about Carson passing me on his bike, flowers in hand. I became angry. Everyone who passed with a bouquet of roses compounded the anger. How did all these people have a person? Why was it so hard for me? In a desperate attempt to escape this feeling, I wondered if the one boy might be waiting with flowers on my doorstep where we first kissed, but then I realized that nobody’s going to bring you flowers when you ignore them for three weeks.

Anger is difficult to express and miserable to feel. All I wanted was to release it, for it to go away. But there was no place to displace it. I wasn’t angry with anyone; I was angry at the world. I nearly stopped the Daniel Caesar album that played through my earbuds, wondering why every song in the entire world was about love, but there was something melancholy in the song playing, so instead I allowed the music to wash over me, as a palliative for my racing thoughts.

A few songs later, the anger had turned into a general sulk. I’d notice landmarks peripherally, but they felt less interesting. I had lost the sense of clarity from the beginning of my walk and instead allowed the feelings to swirl around unnamed, sometimes punctuated by music. Somewhere in that swirl was the boy from the doorstep, the girl from that unnamed heartbreak, the person who complimented my Medium Auburn hair. All the situations that didn’t work out swirled like the tornado from The Wizard of Oz until I ended up in Trader Joe’s, as if it was the Yellow Brick Road out of my sulk.

It was dark by the time I emerged, and I wasn’t a new woman as I usually am after a trip to Trader Joe’s. By the time I got home, the prospect of making dinner and enjoying “Galentine’s Day” felt overwhelming. I drank lots of white wine and listened to Michelle’s playlist for Barack, and stewed in the weird space of knowing you should be happy but feeling down.

I’m not sure what it is about this walk that always leaves an impression. It’s as if the escape into a less familiar place allows me to become more familiar with myself, allows me to become more honest with myself. My walls are lined with jokes and “men are trash” and fears and not responding; being single has become a part of my identity. Letting those walls down, even to myself, was jarring and confusing and uncomfortable. I wish I could say that on Valentine’s Day, I learned self-love is all that matters, but Carson and his flowers made two things clear: I hate Valentine’s Day, and I wish I didn’t.