Three weeks have passed since I last walked through downtown Portland. Three weeks since I fractured several bones in my left foot. Yesterday was the first day I could stand upright without severe pain across the metatarsals, tissues so fat and blue they look like an autopsy photograph. I rode the elevator to the roof, learned new movements using my crutches, and basked in the afternoon sunshine.
I looked out over the skyline and longed to walk down to my favorite cafes.
Just prior to the injury, I had overcome a deep depression and eased back into a routine of visiting the same couple of coffee shops every morning to write, with Moleskines and a stack of research articles in hand. I claimed the same table, ordered the same small cup of house coffee, and watched as familiar people did the same.
It was a relief to be back. I had always written in coffee shops, because for some reason, public spaces fuel my inspiration. Not sure why.
Over the years, I often wondered about people who disappeared from the scene - even people I never actually spoke with or knew by name. Were they sick? Did they move away? Die? Take a vacation? Land a job with a weird schedule? I would stare over at their table and imagine their outline in the air, like one of those colorform books. Sometimes, I invented intrigue and mystery where none existed. Could the man with the black leather motorcycle jacket - the one who always dumped blueberry muffin crumbs straight out of the pastry bag into his mouth - have been CIA?
I wonder: Has anyone noticed I am missing from the scene? Does anyone invent intrigues about me?
After five years in this city, still nobody knows me here - except my husband and a few old friends I rarely see. Should I accept on faith that total strangers will notice my absence, as I do theirs?
Looking out over the rooftops, I closed my eyes and leaned back to soak up the light. I imagined my outline at the table right next to the trees, with a view of the sidewalk outside. I wondered if anyone had claimed my favorite table as their own, and how long until I disappear completely from the barista's memories.