Published by June Volz at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 June Volz
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Astoria, Queens. It’s 8:05 AM on a Thursday morning in October. A spectacular, magnificent October morning, Indian summer. Its seventy some-odd degrees, the sky is clear and blue and that autumnal, Florentine light is bathing the streets. I am on my way to the train station to catch an N or W to Manhattan. Off to work. I haven’t seen any of the Usual Suspects this morning (Christmas Lights, Stalker, Steve’s Friend, Mr. Mushnik, Indian Man, Cigarette Lady, not even Liz, the Crossing Guard), but I’ve already passed the guy with the Samoyed, by the church with the one busted bell. It goes bong, bong, thwack, bong,…bong, bong, thwack, bong. I’ve seen the lady walking her little Papillion, and the newly remodeled bodega, next to the brand new elementary school, where a man is holding his little girl’s hand. He’s probably stopping to get her a drink or snack for school. “Buenos dias!” I hear him say to the salesclerk as I walk by. Scads of people,mostly women, are taking their little ones to school – women in saris, women in burkas, women in western clothes. And, quite to my surprise, I think “I love this place.” I’ve only lived here for a little more than a year, and my arrival to Astoria was with trepidation and disappointment. I came a long way to find myself in Astoria. I love this place?