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  • It's been almost a month now since I left the mountains. I'm not sure I miss them, exactly. I mean, I feel that all-over shiftless sense of everything having changed so quickly. I chose to move to this city and I love the brutal intensity of being here; I love the sheer number of people I come into contact with every day. I love the babies making faces on the bus and the grown man hula-hooping for hours in the park and the three women singing lusty a cappella outside the coffee shop. I love the cheap roti and dumplings and I love the way I can feel my legs getting stronger after just two weeks of bike delivery.

    But that's not to say I'm not thinking about the mountains. In my last few months in Virginia, I learned a little more about the local Old Time music scene. I went to the Friday night jamboree at the Floyd Country Store a few times and stomped along with the flatfooters. I'm thinking about the man dancing the two-step waltz with his toddler, how she fell asleep hugged tight to his chest. I'm thinking about the rush of cold air that hit my face as I stepped out of the body-heated hall. I'm thinking about the group of old folks playing their own private jam in the barber shop next door. I couldn't hear them through the glass as I walked by, but I could see the way they exchanged little nods of private harmony, how they tapped their feet in time with the banjo and the spoons.
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