Have been navigating medical issues. Writing is difficult to finish at the moment. My old neighborhood liked this though.
The rumble of the train, and the bellowing of its horn, would sound around the end of day, in this place that I was born. The Olympics would be all aglow as the Sun did take its rest, The streetlight a reminder, to mothers ire don’t test. The doors were rarely locked, and there was a friendly welcome will, Do all we can for others was instinctively instilled. We celebrated people in their triumphs and their joy’s, we played and laughed together, and at times returned the toys. We cried at all the same losses, when the boats did not come home, or all the older siblings and the uniforms they wore. The tides of time have come, and the place has surely changed, if these things are still found it’s hard to ascertain. But hold up proud, and in your heart, that place will never die, for no matter where we are, Old Ballard will always shine. Carried on in memories, and all that we still give, and every “ya sure, ya betcha,” that we pass along to kids.