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  • Here is the door we joked would be ours one day. It sits on the bike trail next that connects my little lime green house in the barrio to his that is sandwiched amidst homes that rent for thousands of dollars a day during festival season.

    I have never been so happy as the day we discovered a trail connected our homes. Who else would commute from here to there? It seemed the universe had formed a path that was just for us. How many pedal strokes were taken that summer, all in the name of love of adventure? How many miles? I traveled to--filled with eagerness, and from--filled with content. We rode together in silence, past nesting cranes and railroad tracks and packs of boys playing basketball with their shirts off.

    I bought scraps of vintage fabric with the intent of making a quilt--each square devoted to the landmarks along our magical route. I couldn't wait to craft it. I'd lay out fabric samples along my sewing table and envision the final product. One day, some day, we would wrap ourselves up in the patchwork of memories, point to the half-way mark between his old house and mine and remember when...

    As it turns out, the two of us won't wrap ourselves up in anything again. Or, at least not together, anyway. I took the fabric scraps out to my shed because I couldn't stand their nagging reminders of what was lost. Maybe I'll turn the loud prints that were destined for "Graffitti Alley" into a bandana for the dog I always wanted. Or perhaps I'll be under a tree at Barton Springs next summer in a sundress made from "Pee Pee Tunnel" scraps. For now, I am not sure what will become of them.

    One thing is for sure: Today, on my bike, on that trail, I have never felt so lonely.
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