I’ve lived in this neighborhood since I first moved to Seattle.
I remember the sights unfolding before my bright eyes: the colorful people, the pocket parks, the urban chic and tragic. I talked up the neighborhood as my iridescent home. When out-of-town visitors started to come, I was elated to craft itineraries that showcased the glory of my new frontier. My new beginnings.
That was two and a half years ago; how time sneaks through the cracks.
For old times sake, I walked around Capitol Hill as its resident one last time this past week. I passed my old job. My old studio apartment. My old walking route to the grocery store. The bars I never enter. Cal Anderson Park—a nexus of protests; of past “dates” and breakups; of mourning and laughter.
I’ve been here for a while. The honeymoon has long passed. Bright eyes have since dulled. I’m not new anymore. I’ve lived many lives on these streets, blooming bright colors and growing my soul. These rainbow crosswalks are haunted with memories.
Capitol Hill has been my home, where my roots are planted in this eclectic city. I’ve been around the block and back; watched it gentrify with luxury apartments and trendy boutiques.
Change is inevitable—for this neighborhood, for myself—and more is yet to come. But I’ll always find myself here, just as I’ve done these past few years, enjoying warm evenings on park benches and my climbs up the Pike Pine corridor.
And for now: a change of scenery, if only a few miles away, if only for a little while.