Head down, against this wind. I don't want to face these things. It's easier not to look ahead. To a familiar place where hard decisions become missed opportunities.

The wind always makes my eyes water and blur. And the instinct is to lower your head? But if I'm going to be honest—and why shouldn't I?—I guess I kind of like it. I like the blurring. Because it's a distraction. And it's safe. And my distractions are my last resort. Nobody talks about the risks of being too focused. So I lift my head and stare ahead blindly.

I call my Dad from outside the Y. Where it's cold. Where it's pissing rain. Where the wind blows. In April. A day after tax day. I tell him there's talk of snow here. He says it's 73 there. He's on his cell in Texas. He says he hasn't packed yet. Doesn't care much for it, the packing. In two days he will be in Italy. Last week I was in Japan. Times like these, a cell phone is a miracle.

And suddenly I'm glad for everybody—for people I love that are far away, but who are as near as a phone call. Or these words. I'm glad for shared moments at safe distances.

And there are other people right in front of me. As real as my hand, and just as close. I share the same space. And that's it. Their movie is not mine. Walk-ons to my life. My set. They fight the wind and rain with their umbrellas. They aim for their destination and make it seem important and real.

Take cover, brother. Because it's cold out here. In here. We all shut out the things that make us wince and tear. It's good to have a winter coat in spring.

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