Haloed be this place. Today in the middle of morning cleaning, I made an altar to Hennepin and other streets that wear our steps.
My feelings about Hennepin border on religious, this worn path that draws me into communion with my beloved precedents, named and forgotten. It’s baptism and burial, prayer and epithet, place.
The beer I found in the middle of the sidewalk one hot summer night, cold & unopened, an offering to the living. The half-hidden jar is Hennepin-found bobbles: @walkerartcenter tags, two millinery birds (found the summer after the little Birdie Sanders I made with paper clip glasses was crushed beneath an SUV on Hennepin and 25th), a barber scissors, a piece of orange cone, plastic spacers from construction, two bits of a vellum globe found in the same day three blocks apart, my first snow bristles, other street debris.
I don’t know quite how I make sense of this path. It’s not mine, unceded. I’m nowhere’s someone, mixed here of people not of here. And it’s mine, in the way that my name is mine, happenstance, familiarity, instinct, ritual.