Gentrified

Gentrified, I could barely believe it—the old haunts on Beacon Hill. 32 Grove Street – the wall to wall folkie palace- clean and freshly painted. The murals on the walls depicting less than orthodox Biblical renderings covered over. The smell of stale beer expunged from the stairwell.
Worse our bar, the Harvard Gardens was serving Fine Craft Beers to a clientele that would have shrunk away from my companions and me.
The Single Room Occupancy flophouse that I frequently had called home was now an upscale residence for college students. Lots to remember, all the buildings were there, but nowhere was there a sign of the old Beacon Hill. It had gotten sanitized.
The only familiar face I saw was the very much older Luigi at Luigi’s store on Grove. He studied my face, smiled, grabbed my hand, and said: “Hey, the five bucks you owe me. You got it?”
It’s nice to be remembered.