After the Last Day

Yesterday was the last day of the year. I walked a dog that was not mine through a park I had not claimed. The leash felt light in my hand, like something I was trusted with but not expected to keep.

An older couple stopped me. They asked for my name. The question sounded practiced. As if they had learned, over time, that this was how you entered a moment properly. Their voices were calm. They waited for the answer.

They threw the ball, wet with drool, farther than I expected. The dog missed it. They laughed, quietly. When I bent down to clean up after him, they were already moving, already helping, without asking. It felt agreed upon. Ordinary. Shared.

Nothing about it asked to be remembered. That was the relief.

The park was worn in the right places. Grass flattened by use. Trees standing without urgency.

My body stayed where it was. I was not scanning the edges. I was not preparing to leave. I did not feel watched or evaluated.

This might be what being in the right place feels like. Not happiness. Not arrival. Just alignment. Being spoken to with care. Being helped without conditions.

Being allowed to exist without having to account for it.

I walked the dog back.

I fell asleep before midnight. The year changed without me. When I woke up, nothing felt different.

It had been just another day.