The sun setting on Sixth Street is sublime. The buildings hold the heat from a day of being beat down by the sun. The solar energy radiates across the asphalt parking lots, up the windowless walls, and makes the single-planted tree’s leaves rustle as if it were fall.
The blocks are empty of people, of movement, but memories of their presence still linger: a stray cup, a shoe disappearing around the corner. Brick walls proclaim memories of previous buildings—a century-old paint job still is trying to earn your business.
Hypocritical as it may seem, I enjoy the broad expanse of the parking lots for a singular reason: they remind the horizon to drop in on me uninvited. The enlarged orb reminds me that it doesn’t need an ocean’s frame to be stunning.
Crossing Broadway, looking west, dusk competes with the playful neon of the L & N Building. Union Station rests in the shadows—an imposing building dwarfed by its neighbor but still holding its own.
Near the old fire station, a bit of asphalt street is gone, revealing the street car rails buried beneath.
Sharrows begin to greet me as I get closer to home. There’s the corner where I met up with a good friend, there’s the house whose rooftop I remember well. There’s where a former co-worker lives, there’s the awesome new theater space, there’s the sign I took a picture of when I was just discovering the wonder of my neighborhood.