On a brick wall across the street from my Winthrop Road apartment in Boston there was a little white spot of paint. Like someone started to graffiti but remembered he was in Brookline and stopped. I used to sit on the steps of my building and stare at that spot on evenings of every season. We spent a lot of time together. I sometimes wonder if it's still there or if the owner of the ice cream store on the inside touched up the affected bricks. I miss it sometimes; it was a good listener.