Author: Sofia Samatar

The perfection, the absolute perfection of a golden September day in the Friendly City.

They tore down the Virginia Theater and put in a parking lot. But you can still see, she tells me, in the brick buildings downtown, the outlines of former architecture, the shadowy shapes of windows that will never open again.

“I have a question for you,” he said. “Why do you live here?”

Friends and neighbors, I advise you not to walk on Country Club Road.

thought I’d walked everywhere I could in this town, circled every place I could reach from my front door. It was during the COVID-19 pandemic that I really became a walker, during lockdown, when I’d go on long rambles just for something to do.

Tonight I walked past your house and you waved to me from the porch so vigorously it felt like you were glad to see me again, although we’ve never spoken.

Recently a neighbor told me, “I prefer our landscape of chickens and cows to the territory of horses and vineyards over the mountain.”

She sits on an island between two streams of traffic, where Liberty Street and Main Street converge. Three flags rise above her. Bronze, sad-eyed, she extends her arms in a gentle, open posture, her head slightly bowed, compassionate, contemplative, and resigned.