I looked for it when we walked in, and it was still there: a framed copy of the article I wrote when the Mexican restaurant opened across town.
It wasn’t a particularly good article – not a lot to say about a new restaurant – but I guess any press is good for a new establishment and they’d framed it.
This evening it was a friend and the baby and I and our waiter didn’t understand when I asked for crackers for the baby; she spent the evening twisting around in her seat trying to see the people behind her.
And it was a strange collision of my worlds; the physical reminder of what I used to be, and the loud presence of my daughter to remind me what I am now.
I still notice the wail of fire engines. Every big storm I think about the weather story I am not writing. When I pick up the paper in the afternoon I notice the headlines that would have topped my stories, only I didn’t write them. Sometimes I’m glad (election coverage stinks). Others I’m sorry.
And I still notice signs of stories that ought to be written, walking through town with the stroller and the dog and a pack of graham crackers for the inevitable “nack, nack” refrain she’ll pick up about a block into our walk.
I’m not a reporter anymore, not in job title anymore. But I’m not sure I’ll every completely stop being one.