Invisible threads

I often think about all the people 

who have come before me.

I mean literally walked the same path 

down the same street.

I think about the echoes they leave behind.

A little breadcrumb trail for me to find.

A handprint smudge on a window pane.

Or initials etched into the trunk of tree,

just morsels of a name.

I wonder where they were going, but 

more importantly where they’ve been.

Coming up with make-believe scenarios, 

and adding my own spin.

The person who forgot their umbrella on the train 

was in a rush, I imagine.

They’ll be back in a few hours to retrieve 

it from the lost and found bin.

And the pacifier that sits stranded on the sidewalk

came from a young child who went from

mumbling sweet nothings to finally learning to talk.

Their first word was “momma” and its parents

were so proud,

even though the father secretly wanted “dadda” to

be the first word uttered aloud.

But those are the moments in the here and now.

What about in all the years past?

Who was the first to do something

if I was the last?

The first person to walk through the park

and cut this makeshift path

Where there was once overgrowth and tall grass,

the route is now downtrodden and flat.

Did they ever wonder who would come after?

Who would stand in the same spot and fill it 

with small human moments and laughter.

Time can be a fickle thing, tethering us all together.

Its invisible threads stretching into forever.

It’s a comfort sitting here pondering a life you never knew.

Knowing there will be someone down the line

who will be wondering the very same about you.