"Decatur Revisited"

Now that the leaves have fallen, the world beyond my loft window stretches wide and clear. I can see all the way to Decatur Avenue at Orchard below Fort Hill—to that familiar grey house with white trim, the one I once called home. Its sudden reappearance feels like a whisper from the past, stirring memories of backyard wanderers: two stray cats with tails held high, mysterious and proud. I wonder if they were ever adopted, cherished by the upstairs tenant, or welcomed by someone new—just as I had once taken them in.

My “sort of BFF,” who practically became my roommate for eight months, mentioned them recently. He misses those furry companions, just as we both miss Rocky—the raccoon who turned every evening into a wild little ritual. We laughed, remembering his nightly visits, and felt that familiar ache of nostalgia for the creatures who made Decatur Avenue feel alive.

Still, I don’t miss the relentless chorus of crickets. Their endless chirping was a soundtrack I’m glad to leave behind. In its place, I’ve found comfort in the city’s pulse: the hum of conversations rising from the street (sometimes people talking to themselves!), the sirens slicing through the night, the steady rhythm of traffic. It’s oddly soothing—like the roar of distant waves.

With the trees bare and my view unobstructed, it feels like a new chapter is opening. I see clearly now. But do I see enough to dive back into Painted People? Will I manage to finish the books I promised myself before January 1? The possibilities feel thrilling and almost endless. The changed landscape outside reminds me: there’s always something new ahead. And maybe—just maybe—I’m ready for it