A place that holds, within it, a container of our memories. Even if they aren’t the good memories. A city is a vessel. A mirror for our past selves. And so it gets away with its lying, sometimes. I lie to myself about the places I love, even when I don’t want to. Even when the places I love don’t look like the places I love anymore. You look into the mirror and the mirror laughs, asks what good the reflection is if everything has turned to dust. And still, I forgive, and forgive, and forgive. I call this loyalty because I have to.
