The Hill always casts a shadow. The sun peers through the thin gray clouds that are so common in Seattle, and every ray of light it casts, Beacon Hill selfishly catches, leaving the area behind it to the west, dense with gloom—a captive, forbidden to soak itself in gold.
On the Hill, innocent little similar-styled houses form this grid of a neighborhood—a neighborhood I live in, but never felt part of. The lawns weren’t usually manicured but the green waxy color it reflected made it look almost artificial. It’s summer and most kids are inside playing their video games, watching their individual TVs in the PJs they plan to wear until their parents announce they’re taking the family out to eat that night. Only the younger kids with their white, pink-tinted cheeks thrill themselves, riding their bikes where they shouldn’t—down the middle of the street where one or two gleaming SUVs will drive every ten minutes or so. Some parents will watch them from their porches, talking to the neighbors about school systems, traffic, and news of robberies in the neighborhood. |
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