Hats and Sunbeams in February

It's one o'clock and time to leave work. I throw on my coat and gloves and pull on the crocheted 'My Neighbour Totoro' hat that my mom made me for my birthday. I push open the back door to Robert Frost building on the Southern New Hampshire University campus. I'm twenty-five, it's February, and I'm single.

The sun has been engulfed by the dense grey clouds above and the sidewalk is glazed with snow and ice. I shuffle along past Belknap building and hold my breath inconspicuously when I come to the exit where the international students crowd to smoke and speak into their cellphones in loud foreign languages. The air is stifled there by the strange brands of cigarettes that reek of some inexplicable smell, like burnt pine needles or sour evergreen. Once I'm clear, I let out my breath and descend the stairs.

I come to the large stone memorial plaque, dedicated to the school by the class of some-year-or-another, and stand at the edge of the crosswalk. I look left, then right, then left once more before I start to cross. That's when I see her. She is bundled up in a warm winter coat with the hood pulled just over her head. Her sandy blonde hair falling around the sides of her face and disappearing beneath a warm-looking plaid scarf.

She tilts her face up and I see her green eyes brighten in recognition from behind her glasses. But it's not me she recognizes.

"I love your Totoro hat," she says with a genuine laugh and a smile that is enough to dissipate the grey clouds for a moment so that a sunbeam can peek through. She rolls the r in Totoro like she's said the word a thousand times before. Like she grew up watching the movie and sleeps with a frayed stuffed-animal version of the fluffy creature.

I want to ask for her name. I want to ask her if she'd like to get lunch. I want to know everything about her. I want to hold on to that sunbeam and never let it go.

But I don't say any of those things. I say "thank you," I smile, and I walk past.

Crossing paths on the cross walk.

Once I'm a few steps from the sidewalk on the opposite side, I look back over my shoulder and wish that I was instead walking beside her. My gloved fingers interlaced with hers. She tells me about her morning and groans about her back to back classes. I walk her to the door of the building and she squeezes my hand, leans in, and kisses me softly. I tell her to have a good class, and that I'll see her soon, and that I love her.

But I don't tell her these things. I'm not holding her hand. We're not in love. I'm walking toward my car, fishing for the keys in my coat pocket. I'm twenty-five, it's February, and I'm smiling. Because she told me she loved my hat. And until I find my own sunbeam to hold on to, it's enough.