I am sitting on the Tennessee River, or the walking bridge if you please. The sun warms my face and the river breeze cools it again. I think to myself, in moments like these, that I could live here and be happy. It is called the Art District and the river is grey-green, my favorite color.

All around me buildings in all their architectural glory rise up or lay flat, comfortable with their Art for Art's sake. People, couples, families, young, middle-aged, and elderly, walk on this, my section of the river. It makes for much to write about: Old men swapping stories and old women talking about the mileage they've gotten on their legs while they sip diet Dr. Pepper from red straws. Couples hold hands and look, at each other, at their hands, happy. Families run ahead or fall behind because it's the nature of family, to run ahead or fall behind with faith that no one could ever be too far away because there's blood that ties. Boys with leather art cases and scruffy beards who catch my eye (or maybe I catch theirs). Girls who walk their Scottish Terriers and Scottish Terriers who sniff my water bottle. Children who learn to ride their bikes and parents who try to remember what it feels like to not know everything.

I could live here, I think, near that small child who looked at me and smiled, near the brick streets and green-grey river, near art, the district and the way of life.

I could live here, I think, if there weren't so many other places to live.