January 27, 2026

I am not Jeanette, and you are not Kirk

but for the briefest intersection at Broad Street and Shore Road, we mistook the other for the friend we knew. Maybe it was my bright orange hat, my height, my face squinting in the snow. Maybe it was your beard, your plaid jacket, how your body leaned as you made your way forward in heavy boots. “Hello!” you sang out, lifting your right arm in a wave. “Hello!” I sang back, lifting my left in response. It wasn’t until we were almost touching that we realized our error. But by then you were already Kirk, and I had transmuted to Jeanette, and there were meals and birthdays and conversations behind us. Later, long after we had left each other, I wondered how it would be to look into the face of every stranger and find some flicker of familiarity—an arch of brow, a wrinkle, a hairline—and feel the same swell of warmth. Something to remind you there was a person out there who might know you from your hat. A person you’d recognize because of the way they walked. Whatever it was that turned you toward affection, toward wanting to see the other come even closer.