Belmont, 2012
The pale yellow leaves of October were everywhere but there. I drank cappuccino while perched on a stool in a cafe just off Clark on Belmont. My old neighborhood. Angry youth howled from the corner speaker above my head. I looked through the white coffee cup, doughnut, and small red dollar sign into my past. Mom always wondered how it would feel to travel home without telling anyone. I did too.
Looks like you're in my neck of the woods :-). Hope you have a good time at home.
ReplyDeleteReally? I didn't know where you lived. My words above are a couple of plane rides back. I'm visiting yet another home now.
Deleteit feels a little secret when one does, like telling on oneself almost...
ReplyDeleten♥
And shouldn't we all keep at least one little secret?
DeleteHas it changed much over the years?
ReplyDeleteSo much has changed, but I'm happy to know many things remain the same.
DeleteWhat a nice thing to do.
ReplyDelete: )
DeleteThis image makes me feel I'm sitting there too. Revisiting anonymously makes me simultaneously a particularly fierce pull of memory, but also the feeling of seeing it all as though in a film. I like seeing the visit through your eyes.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Kate. I like the "seeing it all as though in a film" perspective you describe. I've definitely been there, so many times.
DeleteOh what a lovely idea - it strikes me as it would be quite freeing, and give one a sense of stillness. I hope you had (or are having) a wonderful time.
ReplyDeleteIt was freeing, Annie. Definitely a good time.
DeleteI'm assuming that this home holds few people you would or could look up. Or did you surprise them by ringing their doorbell? But if it was, like Elsa May suggests, a solo trip, it sounds like one might be able to achieve the same peace one finds from a solitary walk in the woods. What a unique gift to give yourself in a city.
ReplyDeleteTruthfully, there were many people to look up. I quietly crept in and out. Something I've always thought about doing. It was a special journey into my past.
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