The cool air is fresh and young.
The driveway is wet and gravelly on the pads of my feet. The streetlamp's light overflows onto the pavement, blurring and multiplying tenfold in its depths.
There is something about its reflection that takes me back to another time spent with another feeling.
But, unlike most nostalgic sensations, it does not flit in then dance out of my mind. It lingers, accented by the steady plimmer of raindrops on the ground and car hoods and leaves of the maples. It wants to be remembered. It's waiting to be understood.
I cannot comprehend it.
I shiver, and my discomfort drives other thoughts away. I inhale once more, then retreat to a warm, dry and quiet refuge. The misunderstood memory is stifled with the muffled plimmer plitter on the roof.
But something from out there clings to my bare feet and follows me inside: the unbidden whisper of a reminder, "This is how it should be."