Eastern Market

The white canvas glare told her she was in the right spot, and the ephemeral mists of her many selves flickered in the black asphalt heat. The restaurant on the corner was new again. She wondered how many places had come and gone in her absence, remembered her pink knuckle grip on the miniscule square table as she insisted to multiple waitresses that their fifth was just down the block.

She couldn’t recall when this had stopped being a destination, but it probably coincided with the change in job and the settling in and embracing the new community. This, to her, echoed of early twenties and adventure and only the beginning of the slow nag reality – what do you want to be when you grow up?

Now this was her grown up and these Sesame Street row houses were a crawl back to a former self for one last goodbye embrace.


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