We had been up all night patrolling the neighborhood against arson. Roderick crashed around 2a.m. to catch some sleep before having to go into work, the volunteers went home around 4a.m. and I headed to what we hoped would be our new house for one more walk-about before bed.
Peeking out of the partially boarded windows of 515 Millard, I think: "This. *this* is where we'll live:
519 Millard looks so peacefully watchful as ill-considered paint fades from its brick exterior. The Jefferson apartment building sleeps quietly among bits of broken glass waiting patiently for its next life to begin. Across the street - on the other side of the empty lot where the O'Keefe place once stood - 509 Owen sits under the remains of its weather vane wanting to be loved by more than the dozen-or-so cats that live under its porches. The sadly-gray Barie house on Jefferson sighs and sinks a little lower into its cellar as another rented moving truck passes without stopping to bring a new tenant’s things to the New Amadore. Across Jefferson sits Rick and Chummy's place with its gables and chimneys leaning so protectively over it that the torque occasionally pops a slate from the tired roof.
Looking out on all this through the wavy, bubbly window glass of our new-old house makes me wonder: Maybe the world hasn't changed all that much in a hundred years. Not really. Maybe it's just the window glass that's changed.