Once upon a time, I lived in a tiny little town on the edge of a river surrounded by lonely abandoned mill buildings. My own apartment should have been abandoned, as the very ceilings were crumbling away, and the back steps were slowly sinking into the ground. For years, the only life on the streets were people stumbling out of their apartments to smoke cigarettes and swear at their neighbors for parking in the wrong spot. Then, things began to change. I started seeing artists hanging out on the corners, paintbrushes in hand, drawing the very buildings that had been only thought about as eyesores the day before. The abandoned mill buildings began to fill up with artist studios. Someone planted flowers along the streets. A lovely little coffee shop opened up just steps from my door. The whole neighborhood began to pulse, to breath a little. I could feel the pavement expand beneath my feet every time I walked outside my door.
And then I moved.
While I love the place where I am living now, and wouldn’t trade being with PK in our little nest for anything, it’s like I fell asleep on the couch just before the really funny thing happened at the party that everyone will be talking about for months. Typical.
There’s no end to this little tale, just the hope that my little old neighborhood is rolling along and building up artistic steam. Maybe I’ll stop by for a cup of coffee sometime soon and see how things are coming along.