A Chalk Line on Stone

My knuckles still carried blue dust from the alley. I walked the damp bricks back to the threshold, measured stride after measured stride, until the familiar iron accordion gate rose before me. In my palm, the chalk stub had worn down to a flat wedge. I did not drop it into the gutter. Kneeling beside the granite jamb where the gray packing blanket waited, I set the chalk flat into a recessed masonry seam next to the rusted boot scraper. It sat flush against the mortar, dry and secure. I backed into the heavy wool folds, easing my spine against the brickwork. Hands crossed over my chest. Settled once more.