the frosting

Sun 2.24.19

      Bruised and battered but still in one piece I have made my move to the city.  My hands are so rough from packing and unpacking cardboard boxes I could use them to sand the dining room table, and my nails are down to the quick, but I’m here, in the city where years past I went to college and hung out in the Old Port with my gang of feminists, psych professor Sytsma and his fellow profs (I’ll have to drop into one of his classes at some point.)  Portland has a good vibe, laid-back, cool, friendly.  A lot of blacks now, Africans, Americans, not so much where I live, which is North Deering, but in city center.  It’s not a lot compared to other cities, but for Maine it’s a big change.  There are even signs on the buses that warn it’s not ok to diss folks for their differences.  I would say the town is primarily ethnic, so different shades, and sophistication, which I like.

      Once everything is piled in the new apartment I’m convinced it’s never going to all fit in.  But it does, I’m a good shelf builder, and I’m even learning the city’s bus routes.  Yesterday, I went to the main branch library, acquired a card, then went and had a margarita with chips and salsa at Taco Escobarr.  The social self is coming back to life; it had been in abeyance for the past few years.  Today is the first day where I feel my apartment is home.  Everything’s been put away; the only thing left to do is hang up the wall art, the tapestry, the paintings, etc, in other words, the frosting.