There is a little place called Finn Slough at the southern banks of Richmond that feels like the end of the world. I wandered there today to see its mystic atmosphere, like it might the home of a bayou witch doctor.
Of course, a good witch doctor knows that Covid-19 is in the air. The rickety bridge in was blocked off to all outsiders, which made it even more mysterious.
It’s only April but the air down there was already thick with sweetly scented plants bursting with perfume that I only remember from the summertime.
Every time I go there, I fear it might be the last time I’d see it standing. The wood looks rotten, the bridge looks decrepit, the houses look like they haven’t been lived in since they were built.
I’m enamored with this place because it’s so uncharacteristic of the sterility of the high rise glass monoliths I’m surrounded by at home, despite being just a 30 minute drive away.
It looks and feels like a crumbling dream, something from a southern Gothic novel. It’s a place I can imagine stories to.
One day I want to take that bridge in, meet a resident or two, and breathe in its story.
For now, I’m confined to the sidewalk, where chalk drawings with words of affirmation can actually break your heart.