Dear Wigleaf,

It's a short two-minute walk from my house to the paved path where I take my dog almost every day. Trees line one side of the path, branches hanging over for part of the way to create a kind of cool tunnel-like effect. Plenty of squirrels as well as the occasional deer and periodic roving gangs of wild turkeys. Plus people: people walking their dogs, people doing what I'm doing.

For years the path had been precarious, wildly uneven in places, concrete shifting over time, bumpy, imbalanced. Hazards galore. You had to pay attention. You had to navigate the uncertainty, step by careful step, and be aware of the potential for danger: tripping, ankles twisting and spraining, old people losing their footing, falling. I guess that's me now; I have weak ankles and will turn fifty-eight in a few months.

And for years my wife and I complained about the path. Complained to each other, that is. When was the last time it was repaved? Had it ever been repaved? Why had nothing been done for so long? Did the city know about this lawsuit waiting to happen? Did our neighbors also complain and worry about the likelihood of injury? We really should lodge a complaint.

Well, through no result of our actions (we never did contact the city, never did lodge a complaint), one day last week workers showed up and began repaving the path. I texted my wife the news. She texted back: Miracle! I can't believe they're finally doing it. Within a span of like five hours the work was done, the path transformed. Flat, smooth, uniform, safe.

On the first walk on the newly repaved path, my dog looked confused. I myself felt a little disoriented. This surprised me, because I'd been desiring this change ever since we moved to this neighborhood. Sure, there was relief and admiration at the pristineness of the path and appreciation of the removal of myriad risks. But I found that I missed the old path, its unruliness and obstinance, the way it was before, the imperfections and funky charms, the vigilance and alertness required to avoid harm.

Certainly it's a better path now, better for the walkers and especially for the old people. But there's also an unexpected mourning over what's passed, what was, what first solidified my understanding of and relationship with this path. And I do have a relationship with this path, as does my dog (name: Jojo). It's where I step away from the world. It's where I pause and ponder. It's where I relive memories from childhood. It's where I conjure my dead parents. It's where I reconsider my parental mistakes. It's where I try to solve the problems with the novel I'm working on. It's where I wonder if I should be writing something else instead. It's where I put away my phone and life and simply walk, be, absorb.

So thanks, path, is I suppose what I want to say with this postcard. I like you now and I liked you then. Maybe at some point I'll remember you less as you were, even though now, on today's walk, a gray and gauzy day, trees touched with mist, I think: no, I won't forget, yes, I'll always remember.

AR