Skånegatan

A concert in the park ends. Floods of people trickle down the hill, past the old wooden houses--this used to be the poor worker's streets, how they toiled through life and died young, how they drank, their spirits line the gutters. Now we are all 25 something and pretend bohemians but we can still afford expensive beers and heavily taxed smokes, it doesn't seem right. I ease into the sidewalk bar nonetheless, it can't be helped. It's too lovely, the friends too dear. The night is warm, the sky blue, who knows how many more nights like this we get. My phone beeps and I make plans for tomorrow, count on another sunny day.

For a moment, everything seems possible. For a moment, my place in this city seems real, sound, I bank on it and pretend there is no earthquake at my every step. I make believe this is my life, and I am grateful.

I count on another sunny day. I will, until the earth gives way beneath me.