You are Oxford

Walking down Pullens Lane one last time, I say good-bye to the potholes on the ground. I remember a time when I was so afraid to walk down this road at night. Light rain falls, as is right. A woman struggles with her luggage. I walk as close as I can to the side to give her space. A gust of wind blows, and the branches of the trees by my side sway as if they are waving good-bye to me. I can hear them rustle through When You Were Young. The Killers has always helped me with leaving. I walk past the undergraduate halls, down John Garne Way to the corner shop. I buy two packs of cigarettes -- one is a spare. As always. I tell the shopkeeper that it is my last night here. He asks me where I am going. I tell him I am moving away. He smiles and says okay. I walk home, take a long look at the pond outside my hall, open the door to my flat, go into the kitchen and grab a beer -- my last.

We remember, then eventually we forget to remember. I have forgotten what it is to be cold. Through my tears, I will begin to remember. Yes, reader. I do cry. I prefer doing it when I am alone. Sometimes I fail, but I am human after all.

I will forget this place. When I am home, I will forget. That is a promise. I will forget wishing for the hand reaching for my shoulder, asking me to stay. The hand that never came. I watch the trees sway ominously outside my window. I hear my door clatter with the wind. But I will forget these images, and in time, I will forget Oxford.

One full circle. View from my window in Spring/Summer

But we never really do what we tell ourselves to, sometimes, do we?