I pay low rent in Boston. Sixteen hundred for a two bedroom, utilities included with outside space and half a bonus room. If the house weren’t falling over the rent would be at least a thousand more. Plus heat and hot water. I’m not too fancy and I love bargains. I snapped this place up.
I snapped it up without realizing that the landlord’s son is a construction worker. And that he stores his ladders and lumber and cement in the “outside space” that is our back yard. Not a great view if you want your coffee out back on the creaky old deck.
I thought about moving but there’s something about it here that I really love. And I just figured out what that is. The trees. My dad says over and over how he has six oaks on his property. This isn’t my property but I do notice I’ve counted the trees. Three. Two out back and one in front.
It’s the city so of course you hear traffic and weed whackers, but what I notice most is the chirping. The singing and twittering. The blue jays on the electrical wires. Nuthatches jetting past the windows and chickadees swoop-swooping from roof to roof. The sparrows fuss and sputter in the dirt.
I pretend they all are parrots.
I love living in tropical places and one day I’ll return. Right now, though, I’ll stay here to be near my aging parents. I’m grateful for the birds and the three trees, keeping my dreams alive.