Faces from the past

When I'm jogging, it's a very rare occasion that I see somebody I know. I used to see my neighbors every now and then, and once I ran into a coworker of H's. Every so often I'll recognize a face from the gym and nod in their direction, but no one to pause and chat with. Normally, it's stranger after stranger.

Philadelphia is big, and neither H nor I grew up here. We, in fact, settled here less than three years ago. The people in our lives are scattered over cities, and even over continents across the world. I suppose that it's the true, modern American way. Yet when I'm jogging in the park, I'll often see someone walking ahead of me and, as I come up to them, there's just one suspended moment where I'm convinced it's someone from my past. Is that Lizzie Johnson from high school? Sarah Morgan who played violin with me? Mike Rust from graduate school? I never see people from Philadelphia in those perky gaits, those swinging pony tails, those informal clothes - even people I know from Philadelphia. It's always someone from other times and other places. And as I gain on them, come up on them from the side, I always turn my head just slightly to see for sure.

It's, of course, never who I think it is. Sometimes I can tell while I'm still behind them, from the jaw line or the temple, and I adjust my gaze before they notice. Other times, I give them a full-fledged side glance as I pass, usually greeted with a surprised, annoyed look as the long-shot of a friendly reunion melts away to a stranger's face. I wonder now if I'll still do this once we've moved even farther, once we're settled across the ocean. Perhaps the farther you get, the stronger the urge to look. And I'm sure I will look. But the glance won't be long, and I promise, after that moment when reality sets in again, I'll quickly avert my eyes and focus once more on the road ahead of me.