The trees on my street.

My walk home is the sweetest journey for the imagination and the tired soul after a demanding and disrespectful day. My street starts where a square ends. A square buzzing with life when the weather allows. Chairs and tables, laughter, friends uniting and lovers hiding in non existent corners of a round urban formation.

This part of the historic Budapest is teeming with names that leave me bowed each time I read. Great many writers, thinkers, inventors. Their names made immortal by attaching a straight piece of this earth to them. Starting with my street:

Krúdy, writer of tales, of endless journeys of a young man in a fantastical universe. This universe being nothing less than his and his writer’s reality.
Mikszáth, standing with his huge belly and respectful moustache, pipe in hand in the middle of the square. He wrote of emotions that hold true for all eternity. He wrote what he saw to be true, no love to cover the evils of man, but with all the love in the world.
Babits, lived in a house on the square. He wrote and was the master of the tangled web of thoughts humans toil forever with. He wrote of temptation and redemption. He warned man to forgive and sewed his words carefully around the fragile idea of the individual possessing all power but emotions taking the better of him ever single time.
Irinyi, inventor of matches, shared this part of the town with these masters of the pen. He brought warmth and light to the endless dark days of winters without blue skies. Those days burned.

Each day I am reminded that the soles of remarkable men of talent decorated the cobbles that I tread lightly on. That whatever is in the present starts somewhere very far back in the past. I am not the first to see the trees of my street. I am not the first to enjoy the quiet bells of the church on my street. The bricks of my room whisper of a former owner, a high ranking priest, a cardinal or bishop who murmured Hail Marys till the morning hours. Or another who spoke of forgiveness but could never forget. Preachers who cloaked in burgundy velvet and hurried down the stairs I walk day in day out to celebrate Mass to those who chose the word of God instead of the word of emperors, the monarchy or politics.

The streets wind and withstand the test of time. They learnt to never shriek when rain taps their backs on a cool autumn night. Living with pride each day that someone great, someone good, someone in love, a child with hope, a lonely soul, a two that just forged, might be walking their backs. They don’t mind the hooves of horses, the tires of cars, the steel of tanks, the plastic of shoes, the bare feet in the summer. They want to lead you to wherever you are aiming to go. In some happy instances they want to be the destination and help you find home on the buildings they boast. There are no tricks up their sleeves.

Today was a joyously hopeful and desperately hopeless Sunday. The two always come hand in hand in my life. A moment of light and then a moment of grey. Shifting and turning until they even out or just argue the whole day. I have little control and have learnt to embrace both emotions with all of me. On days like today, my walk home means more than on hectic days filled with work and worries of another world. On days like today I have time to pay attention to the details of my lovely street. I nod to the square, marvel at the names that cover plaques on almost every single building. The houses run from 1 to 19 on my side. That’s ten. Today my street had a big day. Today my street got some new trees. The square got some lovely fresh flowers that want to grow roots at the feet of Mikszáth. The street was proud and hopeful, vowing to be a good keeper of the new creatures it must nurture. The trees will be happy on my street. They will learn who lived here before them. They will realise that their ancestors were used for Irinyi’s matches, for Babits’ somber poems and they will lift their new leaves towards the church and its bells that ring far and wide to remind all to repent. And that they will. They will repent and forgive, love and breathe oxygen for me and my cohabitants of this lovely street to LIVE.

This is for the new trees on my street. Right now, amidst the doubt and the grey, even breathing feels all right.

My salvation lies in your love.

There’s lightness to forgiveness. An airlyness that sends the soul carelessly floating at the exact moment the words I forgive you plunge from the mouth. These unimpressive collection of letters, anchors that kept the soul bound to the abyss for an eternity, now all of a sudden are freed and with it, the soul roams.

This is how I feel. But an incredible weight still holds me down.

That’s your face, your ways.

There’s a real threat I won’t survive this. I scare myself. I wish for days gone past. I drink to your health and know, so truly know, that all that we have become would never be enough for our two. It would be something doomed to break, like a dry twig, snap. I’m firmly rooted, you’re boundless. I’m greyscale, you’re Technicolor. There’s an ocean of ideas between us and none concern the present. I’m hanging between my greatest fears and dearest hopes.

You’re free, I’m still locked in your memory.
I stay, you leave.
But know that for however long it may take,
my salvation lies in your love that's past and in your love that's present.