Signs are new here. Back from Thanksgiving with my parents in Texas, the ten intervening days have brought small but worthy changes. To my eternal childlike delight, the neighbor boys have gone overboard with Christmas decorations, and work on the closed Airport Way bridge proceeds toward opening this month. But I saw the signs on Friday, with the light.
Look how shiny! A trivial thing, maybe, but their clean new cast the neighborhood in clarity. Gone are the old peeling letters and algae and rust. All through the neighborhood, the city has at last come through and done what the bond issue promised. New signs glow atop their poles.
Today the sun is out and I run outside for the real thing. Sunday mornings have a pensive, held quality. (I imagine the quiet comes from hangovers.) Things that are different highlight themselves: the signs of course, every leaf now down, a ramshackle building’s code violation replaced with a building permit. Kids troop to the Catholic school for the Christmas bazaar like they did last year, but it is this year now.
Going somewhere and coming back is dissociative, toying with the idea of home. Air travel shrinks distance and time, and time is what we need to understand what happens. Did I really go anywhere? Yes. The signs have changed.