If only as a gesture of ushering history into the past I walk through the doorway. You’re busy, with too many customers for one person to handle. The register rings and the line slowly turns over. I slip back outside, still unsure if you’ve seen me. Talking with a familiar face by the entrance, it dawns on me that I don’t have to be here. The past is already gone, regardless of whether I’ve had a hand in burying it. Nothing will be improved by picking at the scab. You look different now: better, healthier, happier than when I left. The shop empties and you catch your breath, but I’m already gone. Back to today.