Imagine if you had somehow gone blind some time around March of 1994, when you were 12 years old. It took a long time for you to realize what had happened, but years later, the last sight you could recollect had been the parade, St. Patricks Day, on the Mall in DC. You were rollerblading (you were 12, ok!) and singing to yourself. You were smiling and enjoying the feeling of the breeze in your face, and the chaos all around the Mall. Such a beautiful place it is.
One day some time in September of 2000 you suddenly realized that you could see again. Not sure when it had happened, you realized that you could see the world around you in stunning and brilliant color. That moment remains clear. The stairwell - descending, smiling - stepping onto the street and noticing everything around for the first time ever.

The buildings on my street are connected, sometimes with mismatching colors of brick defining their beginnings and ends. The horse hitches and boot scrapers remain from 100 years ago. The trees are not quite so old - these robust saplings are nearing 20 years perhaps, and they don't yet dominate the street and block the light or shade the cars parked on both sides of the street.
Some trees have square brick borders around their trunks. The bricks seem to gather condensation in almost all weather.
Some brick walls have vines climbing up them - my favorite vine sometimes bursts with orange berries that look like beads or eyes.
Most of the window frames are painted black.
Most of the buildings have coal shutes - metal panels beside their front steps, painted over, their purpose forgotten. I know those coal shutes lead to musty brick basements with arched doorways and rickety old wooden stairs up to their buildings.
I know now that at night, most people don't pay attention to one another, least of all me.
From my roof on the 800 block, I used to watch the night people come and go. I hoped to see trouble, but it rarely happened - less and less so as the months and years rolled by.
The newspaper box on the corner used to be a drug drop box, but it only holds newspapers now, as far as I can tell.
I once had a neighbor named Will who returned three dollars to me, after I had dropped that money on the sidewalk down the road. His smile was one of the sights that made my eyes appreciate that I was no longer blind.

I'm so scared. I'm so scared to leave.
I get sad again lately. Very sad... "blind" sad.
I walk around the streets and I see these things around me... those weird orange berries, and the soot-stained bricks on the backs of the buildings. (You can only see that when you walk through the alleys.)
There are so many churches I have never -will never- set foot in. I used to live next door to one of them, and I'd watch bats fly around its illuminated steeple in the summertime. It was so hot. It was so hot in summertime, up in that apartment. But I was so alive... for the first time ever.
How can I ever leave? How can I ever be away from this place where I suddenly woke up to find myself feeling content to be alive and breathe and to see the sights around me?
One day I know I am going to be forced to step away from the safe streets that keep me company. I'm going to have to be alone somewhere... alone for real. I know what it feels like but I don't like to think about it. I've tasted bad things and I don't like to remember their taste.
It's hard to walk down my streets and alleys now without wrinkling my brow in regretful anticipation of the day I will have to go away.
I know that I am full of love for anywhere. I know that I will go somewhere else and I will walk down a new street and I will feel a new camaraderie with the inanimate around me. Yet I know I will always feel possessive of my Mt. Vernon.
Do I even have "sight" anymore? Am I happy? I doubt it. But when I gather myself up and wander the streets, I feel a consolation I can't imagine finding elsewhere.
I simply can't imagine being too far from the things that I see and feel and hear here.

I guess this is an ode to my best friend: a friend who will never know -and will never need- my accolades. That's not to say that I am not appreciated. The closer we get, the more secrets I get to know. I receive sweet gifts and treasures.
I should stop worrying about goodbyes and just enjoy the moments. Maybe my tension is a sign that the best is already over. I am crediting Mt. Vernon with a short-lived miracle that it only happened to witness.
At least I know that I won't feel ashamed when I have to say a sad goodbye. A few lucky people have tolerantly accepted my sad goodbyes, but none have really deserved it so much. When I leave here, it won't just be tolerated. I'll be missed, and some secrets I will take with me.