It is both comforting and disconcerting to wake up in a city you lived in for a year, a city you fell in love with instantly and left abruptly.
JM, the bean and I woke up in Pittsburgh, to its snow-spitting skies, its ash-tinted slush, its gray, taupe, and brown buildings. We trudged over to the Rite Aid on Forbes, through the bottom floor of the Cathedral with all its gorgeous arches, where JM confessed he never went past the fifth floor (those elevators are pretty scary); by the little restaurants where we had drinks or an occasional lunch; by the bus stop where we shivered under coat hoods with other people heading to the east end, the other side of Frick Park.
As we walked, and the Bean stared with wide eyes at the store windows and buses and stone, we tried to work out what happened here, why we left, what might have happened had we stayed, whether we would have ended up exactly where we are now, whether we would have had the bean.
All these questions are as unavoidable as they are unanswerable. I tend to agree with the horse dealer in True Grit: "I do not entertain hypotheticals. The world as it is is vexing enough."
Even so, we sure do miss the food trucks, the baseball, and the bridges.