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So we talk—me leanin’ on a lamppost, her smokin’ a fag. “Memory is a curse,” I say, nickin’ from the movie. She nods, like she gets it. Life’s beaten her down, but she’s still kickin’. I exagerate in my head—she’s a femme fatale, playin’ me like a fiddle. Ha! As if. Truth is, she’s just tryin’ to eat.

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Then there's the river, Shady Creek. It flows past Greenwood Park. Ducklings, joggers, and old men fish off the rickety pier there. I sat one day under a big tree, thinkin’ bout life, and damn, the breeze was like a whisper of hope. Made me giddy!

Friends of Pimmit Hills Barn oppose gas regulators on historic McLean property