You hate stepping on his heels, and you shrink at the thought of how you must look standing and waiting for him, calling his name and telling him to walk faster. He pauses to scratch the sidewalk with his fingertips, tries to lick each lamppost you pass. I like church. I got a fourteen. Years of experience have taught you to decipher some of his non sequiturs.
Church goes with music.
Fourteen is a mystery. You are no longer surprised or hurt by the abruptness of this last statement. You take the city in, let it fill you up. You have to enjoy the world on your own now. When your husband was alive, the two of you shared every sight and sound and taste, transformed them into dialogue.