The Echo of FootstepsWalking in a Residential Landscape

On an early Saturday morning, as snowflakes gently caressed the pavement, I set out in search of other pedestrians enjoying the crisp winter air. Leaving from the back door, I observed a clear path to follow. No one was up yet, no one had left the building. The front stoop, however, betrayed the quiet exodus of others. A myriad of foot prints in the snow spoke of those who had proceeded me to this path. Where were they now, and where were they going? I turned left, following the traces of life as far as I could, when suddenly the sidewalk revolted. The foot steps were gone.

Across the street was a recently refurbished house. Just last year it had been in serious need of condemnation. Now its clean, crisp exterior spoke of a new history. One which the new arrivals in the area would continue to remember.

Proceeding towards the corner, an imprint or two reappeared, only to disappear again. At least someone had walked this path on this snowy morning. At the corner, all traces vanished. I was forced to choose, straight or right? The plan was to find others, and going straight all but guaranteed solitude. Right.

My progress was halted. Apparently I needed permission to leave my residential area and venture into a new one. I pushed the button for a walk signal. Waiting patiently, I watched as my prescribed pedestrian path was overtaken by metal beasts. Permission, it seemed, was necessary. Permission provided safety.

In this new area, there were no foot prints. The sidewalk seemed to stretch on for miles. The very length of the block, and the absence of escape routes, kept me plodding along the path. Where were the other walkers? Why was I all alone?

The boredom of this endless street stretched on as I continued straight, hoping for a distraction or at least a crosswalk. Two distractions presented themselves to me. A plant, limbs shouldering the burden of snow, stood in for the life I could not find on my path. Here I am, it cried. Look under the snow. Just then, a motorized trolley rang its bell, and I was snapped out of my fantasy world. The trolley, a motorized container of life, employed to simulate bygone days. The trolley creates euphoria. It represents social memory.

As this long, lifeless road finally came to an end, the trolley passed me by, heading in the direction I had just come from. Smiling at the memory of trolleys back home, I looked down, and they were back! This corner, salvation of monotony, had been traipsed upon by others. Large feet, long feet, feet sliding through the snow. I continued straight across the street where I could see more foot prints, and they seemed to suggest a crossing. Was this my usual path? I could not now remember. I let my body dictate my movement, crossing where it wanted. Efficiency to the wind. It craved human contact. I had seen no one thus far. I was close.

Another crosswalk, a rare paint job just a few years ago, now showing the wear and tear of daily use. Walking with the grain, more little feet guided me along my journey. Some went forward, some came back.

Nearing my destination, I saw traces of life struggling for survival. The surrounding snow had already abandoned them. These last fleeting steps, on the verge of obscurity, called out to posterity, I was here!

I arrived without seeing a single person on foot. The remnants of the past, while visible on my walk down, would be melted before I made it back home.