There is a cadence to this city. Undertones bleeding into overtones. Spilling, letting, blending in a hundred thousand sacrifices every second.
Boston.
I have felt since arriving as if I were part of a concerto--blown by the wind into a corner, subdued by the meeting of brick to wrought-iron gate to ground in the resonance of a flute's vibrato. Then, suddenly, I am freed by the crescendo of the melody waltzing through the orchestra from one instrument to another--harp, piano, viola, cello. (finally, after two years, the cello)
Swept.
Off my feet through a pile of bronze gloves and a maple-oatmeal scone. The music rides through this city on the heads of grandmothers rescuing silver-charmed lizards. Fiction exists here in an ever-unraveling denoument. The climax is the beginning. The end a rebirth.
Stop here, not here, but here. Close your eyes. Experience.