Feels Like Home
Started at the Memorial—
cold air,
honest air,
that makes you zip up
and still feel exposed.
After—
the city kept handing me chapters.
Krog Street Market,
somehow sitting there the whole time
like Atlanta’s been keeping a secret
and finally showed me the side door.
Old Fourth Ward on foot—
brick and edges,
little pockets of “oh… this exists?”
and the quiet thrill
of realizing you’ve been living
in only one room
of a big house.
It was too cold for loitering,
so the streets stayed polite
until the BeltLine—
then it turned into a moving river:
runners with purpose,
strollers with plans,
dogs with opinions,
owners getting dragged by love.
I stopped to meet a couple pups,
said the kind of hellos
you only say when you’re not in a hurry,
and noticed something simple:
I wasn’t visiting anymore.
I was *learning routes*.
Then I crossed town
for one more familiar corner—
Northside Tavern,
Chandler behind the bar,
that whole place humming
like a reliable chord.
I went in for a hello
and walked out with a small mercy—
a spare little calm
at exactly the moment
I’d been hunting for one.
(Atlanta has a way of doing that.
You don’t find what you’re looking for—
it finds you, through people.)
And somewhere in the middle of all that,
the thought landed hard:
I’m moving here.
Offer on a condo in Buckhead—
real,
adult,
terrifying,
the kind of sentence
you say twice just to make it true.
So today felt consequential
in the best way—
not loud,
not ceremonial,
just the city easing up beside me
like it’s making room.
Home doesn’t always arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes it’s a long walk,
a new neighborhood,
a bartender who remembers,
and the first time you realize
you’re already acting like you belong.
That’s what home feels like.
Now let’s fill the rooms.
Read other posts