Falling in Love

with my neighborhood.  A much loved neighborhood, not hard to love, but hard for me to love, because I’ve been investing all my energy in wishing to be elsewhere.  Far.

Tonight I walked my dog in the temperate mist, hazy moonlight pressing through clouds. The streets were quiet but not dead.

The alleys are magical.


I was able to procure a well-made baguette at a shop where the clerks greeted me warmly by name, gave me a discount even, because my son worked there for a minute last fall.

The air on that block always smells amazing thanks to the bakery across the street.  Always cinnamon, always sweet.

Passing the firehouse, a small group approached from the opposite direction; two couples, two children.  I noticed the children first as they ran ahead laughing, twirling shirtless in leggings and rain boots.

Are you Abigail?  The younger of the men asked me.  I’m Andy Brown, he said.  Jingle Ball, Club de Ville and all that.

I remembered him immediately and even recognized his wife Sara(h?) who I’ve met exactly once, about 7-8 years ago.  Isn’t it weird what we keep?






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