To be, that’s what little cricket needs.
To be adventuring, no map, just silent streets named after dead men and old trees.
This town is predictable. Uneven brick roads leading to the center of town… a coffee shop, a library, banks and insurance companies and dandelions slouched over through sidewalks cracks.
A dam with a guardian angel and a dachshund named Snickers, a muddy river full of old bricks and older trees.
A cemetery for my best friend, a poisonous mausoleum and a forest of deciduous trees, decaying around the rabbits and deer it shelters.
Makes it sound more poetic than it is, eighteen years of getting used to it. Summer bike rides, twilight walks, midnight goings-about.
I will miss the familiarity.