There’s a fresh-smelling breeze wafting in advance of an approaching storm.

Crusty, freeze-dried piles of old snow look like tired men slumping their shoulders as they release themselves into widening circles of moisture on the sidewalk pavement.

My iPod somehow knows to dredge up some Grateful Dead as I stroll past the storefront where the Cosmic Aeroplane used to be, decades ago.

And all this puts me in mind of the young man I used to be and somehow lost track of.

I miss him.