What I Did on Your Birthday

For my brother, Jim.

This morning I stood on my balcony and watched the mist burning off around the library. The smell of the lunch trucks and restaurants reminded me of what it was like to visit cities before I lived in one. It reminded me that you once visited this city.
I watched the people on the sidewalks below, in their expensive coats.

I went to Reading Terminal and bought some of Oprah's Favorite macaroni and cheese at Delilah's. After I ate and wrote for a while, I bought a packet of soft peppermint sticks from an Amish man with hair the color of yours.

I had to get outside, so I went to the park. I sat cross-legged on a bench and read Writing Toward Home, the book you recommended. I thought about Maine and Vermont and Washington. When it got too cold to read, I put on my mittens and sat for a while longer with the sun on my face.

On the way home, I went in the Cathedral Basilica. I sat alone and looked at the blue glass and the painted dome and the tall shadow of Mary and Jesus on the wall. I flipped the switches on two electric candles and dropped my money in the wooden box, wishing I remembered which way the sign of the cross goes. But maybe you're not supposed to do that if you're not Catholic. (When I traveled in Europe I kissed my St. Christopher medallion in churches, just for the hell of it. Just because it feels like you should do something.)

At home I made hot chocolate and stirred it with a peppermint stick. I made Ben Harper's new one the album of the day. The fog came in again, all around the Basilica's dome, so I could barely see the gold cross on top. But I knew it was there.

And in the farmer's market and the park and the church and at home, all day long I thought of you.