Boston. Aged red brick and green copper roofs pierce the sky, asserting their authority. Cobblestone streets provide uneasy yet sturdy footing as you stroll the trail of history. A cool breeze blows through your clothes while the sun warms your skin. I cannot wait to return again.
A day in the town. Searching for open buildings and quiet carpets to make busy again. We stumble upon the old YMCA. Faded orange paint peels from the Spanish facade. My father’s memories of children’s games and dark chlorine pools linger like the stubborn paint, threatening to leave but refusing to stay.