Yannick in My City

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I walked up and down Broad so many times. I bet our feet have made contact with the same bits of pavement. You told Terry Gross this is our beautiful city, and I sit on that bench in Rittenhouse Square. I grab a coffee, take a seat, and there's Ross and there's John and there's Becky and there's Jordan. They chat for a minute or two and head off to the next thing. Always somewhere else to go. A city so vast and so small. So historical, dainty, brash, so now.

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Ghosts haunt Philly. Those hypocritical oafs, filled with blindspots, still drenched in optimism. The founding fathers shake their heads at all the ways we didn't follow instructions, even though they couldn't figure it out either. Their foresight will get us out of this mess eventually. Or so we continue to hope.

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But now - back to now - you talk of A flat major, a key that expresses sadness and brightness all at once. My dental hygienist squeals, "Your spirit guides! They are shouting at me. Go make little things!"