The thing about moving back to the old neighborhood is this: everyday, I walk past visible and permanent reminders of The Flake. It serves as a jarring reminder of the not-so-distant Middle Aughts, and every time Lu and I walk past, I look. I look directly at it, and remember a particular day. There are many days I could see again and again, but this is the one I see clearest. I hear it. I smell it. I feel it to my bones. And I feel like I might be rooted to that spot on the sidewalk, my legs filled with lead and furniture and Volkswagen Beetles. Which then leads me to want to pick up my dog, hold her close and run for Du II, slam the door behind me and sit in the dark, air-conditioned living room, singing showtunes.
There's no place like home, right?