When my husband and I lived in the great irreverent city of Portland, we commuted together the four miles, from our cute and trendy neighborhood of Eastside bungalows and cottages, to the downtown core of modest skyscrapers and converted brick warehouses. We parked where it was cheapest, a little over a mile west of work, and walked together briskly, often sharing an umbrella.
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These walks were our time to plan vacations to Mexico or the coast. They were our time to plan our still-imagined family. We planned what to say to our bosses that day and we planned to meet later at the Coffee People that was two blocks from each of our respective offices.
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We could have never planned the life we have now. I never imagined, then, the possibility of living surrounded by this much quiet and green, this much blossom (nor this many children).
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Anyway we used to walk past The Church of Elvis. It's on the main drag of downtown Portland, and a great tourist attraction. The proprietess maintains it is a church, when of course it's a quirky museum. She holds services and, well, sort of kitsches up the worship of the King.
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I was just thinking about that as I noticed the dogwood's bloom over the ghost of our neighboring church in the background.
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