Transitions, Digressions, Stories

Next month I'm moving. Moving. This will be the third time I've left this City, my birthplace, my coming-of-age story. All my firsts happened here and most of my seconds. I came back each time for different reasons, for the same reasons, for practicality and love. For familiarity. For the ocean. The salt. The sting of old losses. For sore lips. For mute brick and rotted iron. For the second oldest high school in the nation. The statues- for Our Lady of Victory, standing since 1891. For Longfellow, sitting in his chair since 1888. Even for the Lobsterman, more recently added in 1977. For the alien egg christmas lights strung up in the trees. For that evil wind which begins in November and blows through March, hateful, desiccating, punishment for our brief seaside summers.

I'm being pulled south. By the most. Most. Delicious entanglement. I have no reservations- and I am a stranger to this, this unified, sense of. Yes. It is quite wonderful to be this sort of stranger.

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( Long, rambling, and inconsistent )