Kilcolgan: Postcards from my Hood

Pretend that you owe me nothing

                                                                  And all the world is green

We can bring back the old days again

And all the world is green.

-Tom Waits

from my neighborhood in Athens, I used to see aerials, the Lycavitos hill, the interiors of others people's apartments, balconies in every size, the street stretching from Alexandras' avenue to the park, stray cats, Ymitos and an endless line of parked cars like a multicolored serpent in hibernation. In my Irish neighborhood I see the skies and the clouds ever-changing, a river running timidly towards the Atlantic unknown, green grass everywhere and sheep and cows and ladies power-walking in the rain.

I miss the sound of the lift as it departs from the groundfloor to the fourth floor. The sound of the doorbell, the sound of the keys unlocking the door, the smell of foods being prepared simultaneously, a battle among thirty kitchens from Athens to Nigeria.

The sound of wooden blinds closing at 2:00 pm for the holy siesta.