A silly little walk for my mental health. Headphones on, daylist playing “pining power ballad tuesday afternoon”.

I step out onto the sidewalk, ready to distract myself from life for 20 minutes.

I stop for every pretty flower. Snap a picture. Revel in spring.

A neighbor two doors down reads her book in a bohemian hammock on her porch. Most people in my neighborhood have a front porch, but I have a back one.

I cross the street next to a woman walking her muscular pitbull, it’s wearing a camo puffer vest even though it’s 80 degrees out.

I notice the Oreo wrapper, the skinny pack from the gas station, in a patch of grass. I used to get those from the grab-and-go market in college with a single serve bottle of milk.

I look carefully at each porch, some with 10 chairs scattered about, others littered with porcelain objects as if it were an antique store.

Some yards are well kept, others full of unfinished projects; a partially erect fence, half of a fire pit, maybe a few patio chairs with ripped, sagging fabric.

I always wonder who lives in these homes, what’s their life like beyond the porch or backyard.

In the alley, a bunny nibbles some grass. “Hey Bunny,” I say. I laugh as it twitches its nose at me. I think of the Peter Cottontail song for the next block.

I pass by a Ford Expedition, the car my mom drove our entire childhood. I remember installing a DVD player in it. We watched Finding Nemo and Son of Rambow all the time because we forgot to bring new movies into the car.

Before that, I remember the Ford having an actual outlet in the car. On long road trips we plugged in our white, mini, bubble-screened VHS player in the backseat to watch The Wizard of Oz.

I round the corner and a squirrel races across my path. He has a friend and they are chasing each other. They run in circles– leaping over front steps, ducking under a bird bath, moving fast. As I walk by, they continue the chase.

As I get closer to my apartment, I look down to find clumps of pink petals have found their way to the edges of the street, the way rain runs next to the sidewalk during a storm. Another celebration of spring.

On my street, the girl reading in her hammock has gone inside. Maybe she got hungry like me.

I see my front stoop, littered with WSJ newspapers that I never subscribed to. But I keep every issue, pull out the occasional crossword, and I wrap all of my gifts with it. I haven’t bought any wrapping paper or bags since I moved here.

I remove my headphones, the skin beneath is sweaty. I kick off my blue Hokas, peel off my socks. Exhale, back to real life.

I can do this.