Lost and Found

Yesterday I got in a terrible fight with my neighborhood. We stopped speaking to each other. It was all because of this:

That cavity on the left used to house a small tile stepping stone, handmade by youth at archiTreasures, one of my favorite organizations in the city (and one I have the privilege of working with on my job).

I felt livid, and sad, and betrayed.

It's a small thing, sure. It's not like someone stole my dog or my bike or -- like our wonderful neighbors up the street Tina and Chris -- their beautiful vintage tandem. But honestly, what is someone going to do with a single handmade path stone anyway, other than throw it through a car window or simply smash it to bits?

After all I've done for you, Neighborhood, I thought. I've defended you against your detractors. I've tilled your soil. I've cleaned up your messes. I've called in your broken streetlights and your vandalized garages. I've supported your businesses, even the weird ones. And this is how you reciprocate? Thanks, but with friends like that . . .

But lo and behold, on my way home from a jog this morning, what should I find half under an iron fence about 4 houses north of us, but this?

I've decided not to ask any questions or force a protracted heart-to-heart. Your overture is accepted, humbly and gratefully. Perhaps most important, the romance is back, and at least this small thing is right with the world.