4/5/09

It is a quiet Sunday afternoon, one that feels like Spring. Walking down the street, seed pods from city planted trees litter the street by the hundreds- like tiny little maces.




My boots don't usually make sounds on sidewalks, but it's so quiet that every step seems to echo.

It's so quiet, so still, that it almost feels (save for my footsteps) that time is standing still. The streets are narrow. The people who planned this area and its post WWII sensible suburbia didn't anticipate families owning more than one car, much less that the tiny seedlings they planted would tear up one smooth cement, or that the branches would grow up and around the power lines.

I've left our quiet little side street, but other than additional traffic, it is still strangely quiet. People walk past, absorbed in their lives. They don't meet my gaze.

The loudness of modern life doesn't seem to begin to catch up until I stop for a burger and fries at a Mom & Pop joint. Their TV blares the local sports show, anchors dissecting the Lakers' chances for the playoffs. An arcade game bloops in the corner, begging to be played.

These places are a dying breed, as much a relic as their Ms. Pac-Man table.

The nostalgia and stillness of the afternoon has been nice. I feel guilty as I open the door to my last destination.

"Welcome to Starbucks," the barista chirps.

4/5/09

It is a quiet Sunday afternoon, one that feels like Spring. Walking down the street, seed pods from city planted trees litter the street by the hundreds- like tiny little maces.

My boots don’t usually make sounds on sidewalks, but it’s so quiet that every step seems to echo.

It’s so quiet, so still, that it almost feels (save for my footsteps) that time is standing still. The streets are narrow. The people who planned this area and its post WWII sensible suburbia didn’t anticipate families owning more than one car, much less that the tiny seedlings they planted would tear up one smooth cement, or that the branches would grow up and around the power lines.

I’ve left our quiet little side street, but other than additional traffic, it is still strangely quiet. People walk past, absorbed in their lives. They don’t meet my gaze.

The loudness of modern life doesn’t seem to begin to catch up until I stop for a burger and fries at a Mom & Pop joint. Their TV blares the local sports show, anchors dissecting the Lakers’ chances for the playoffs. An arcade game bloops in the corner, begging to be played.

These places are a dying breed, as much a relic as their Ms. Pac-Man table.

The nostalgia and stillness of the afternoon has been nice. I feel guilty as I open the door to my last destination.

“Welcome to Starbucks,” the barista chirps.

Originally published at Whitney Drake. You can comment here or there.