The Neighborhood

The streets of the old neighborhood - where the shit went down - is my sanctuary. The trees I climbed and the fences I hopped are my salvation. The crosswalk where I first lost my trust in police, the corner where my bike finally checked up and rode straight, the house where my Godfather lived larger than life for so many years before it all caught up with him. Walking between the shadows of the alley where I first saw blood gush from an open wound, while whistling a private tune, shuffling past unmistakably pungent reminders of a youth since past. I'm most happy when these relics are in plain view and the people are out in the sun. I often travel back to my childhood on those days, when what seems to make the most sense is a good, lively stroll in the midday commotion. I amble past strangely familiar brownstones and smell potted flowers on front steps. I look up at the numbers and it reminds me of those whisper quiet nights when I tucked myself in behind dumpsters and locked cars for the chance to kick-the-can at dusk. These are the memories that tingle inside when they arise and become a welcome relief from an adulthood sometimes punctuated with forgettable ones. The street names puzzle me with an odd delight, much like a new harmonica would a young boy, the curious sounds tantalizing the ears. Dearborn, Burton, State, Schiller, Banks, Astor ring in my head as I walk on the balls of my feet, springing up and out. I see twin brothers selling lemonade and I clutch for my pockets. I offer pleasantries to a roaming assembly of elderly women who hush and make reserved eyes as we pass. I nod towards an invisible memory of my grandfather as I pass a park bench he used to sit on and watch me play during our trips to Lincoln Park. I walk for what seems like days on that pavement, hitting heights no drug could ever provide. And when I get weary, and my body begins to ache with satisfaction, I get on the Clark bus and head home. Swaying with the people, I smile. Moving up my front stairs, I sigh. Sweaty with the day, I head directly to my room, shedding clothes in a crooked path to my bed. The A/C kicks in and I wrap the sheets tight, making a human burrito in that black room and as I drift off, I feel not burdened, I feel not pained... all I feel is the gentle sleep of a child washing over me...