along the sidewalk
The sidewalk leads past a row of old houses...
The Red House stands there with its matching outbuildings - everything painted the same shade, like someone couldn't decide when to stop. Then there's that yellow place with the blue roof the wife didn't ask for.
The path changes under my feet - concrete to brick and back again - a patchwork from a hundred years of different hands.
Up ahead, a door hangs open. The smell hits you before you pass it - something between mildew and marijuana.
At the corner, an empty bench in a park that was once a tea house where black and white sat together.