In a house where the doorbell can ring on a cozy cold night and my neighbor’s daughter can be outside with a plate of freshly baked linzer cookies just for me.
I’m not surprised. This is the place where neighbors come to the door to borrow an egg. This is the place where we walk each others’ dogs and feed each others’ cats. This is the place where I knit afghans and baby sweaters for my neighbors. This is the place where a woman can walk up to a teenager at the bus stop this morning and start talking to him about how to plan for college. This is the place where, once the bus comes, another woman can see that same teenager and say, “Ooo, I saw your mama the other day. That baby’s gonna be twelve pounds, she’s so big!” and he can just laugh and tell her they know she’s having a boy and they’re trying to pick a name.
I’ve lived in this city for twenty-four years (exactly that as of last week). I’ve lived in eight different neighborhoods in that time. And I’ve been happy in almost every one of those places. There have been things I’ve liked about each neighborhood, about each house or apartment, about certain neighbors in each location. But there was always something missing, something not quite falling into place in the way I might have liked. In some neighborhoods — like Cobble Hill, like Park Slope — I was sometimes made acutely aware of that dissonance. In others, I just felt that something was … off.
This is where I live. The first place since leaving my mother’s house where I’ve really felt I was home.
It’s been about forever since I posted a SOL. Go see what the rest of the crowd is posting today over at Stacey and Ruth’s place.