Hopes of a New Apartment

“I guess I should feel lucky for what I have”, he thinks as he carefully dismounts the motorcycle.  It’s no ‘Bat-cave’, but the bike fits snugly inside the gate.  Just the tip of the front tire crosses over onto the iron stairwell that leads up to his front door.  But whatever frustration he felt with the cramped ‘parking spot’ dissipates as his gaze follows the stairway upwards.  Along the wall hangs dozens of plants, a lush array in a well-kept vertical garden.  Bugs and bees fly freely above his head, and a bird is even perched at the top of the wall.  By the time he’s reached the 4^th step, he has been transported.  The smell of the greens, the drone of the insects, the lines from sun to shade.  In the heart of south Philadelphia, he is now a member of a wild jungle.

            At the landing there is a small table with three small potted plants on top.  Cactus.  Aloe.  Grass.  He pretends to be scared of the cactus, pinches the aloe, pets the grass.  With a glance over his shoulder at the city street below, he turns the key in the lock of the front door and steps inside.

            All homes have their own certain smell, and this one is no different;  old wooden cabinets, a couple pieces of ripe fruit on the counter, garbage under the lid of the can, sunlight, basil, dust.  A stained-glass window above the sink spills colored light across the small kitchen.  He absent-mindedly puts his keys in the dish, his helmet in the front hall closet.  He closes the closet door, and a beam of sunlight from the west windows is extended to meet his eye.  It feels like God, calling him to his writing room on the west side of the small apartment.  He closes his eyes, but the warmth of the light remains. 

            The apartment is quiet, still.  He loves it and hates it at the same time.  It is a part of him.  It is opportunity and it is purgatory.  It is everything he wants and needs, and because of that, he resents it.  With a jolt, he realizes the path his mind has begun to fall down, and he quickly steps outside the front door, back into the open air of the late summer afternoon.  And again, he is transported.  From the vantage on the top landing, he is able to see all of his garden; which plants have been growing the fastest, which could use some maintenance.  He inhales the smell of the garden and the dirty street, reinvigorated with beauty and energy.  He looks at his table and small pots, and wonders why he doesn’t come out here to write more often.  “Tea.  Or coffee.  Or wine,” he thinks.