Exploring the intersections of politics and education in Boston through data-driven writing, photography and multi-media.
We’ve had weeks to process the news that our beloved Doyle’s is dying of Stage IV Capitalism, but the passing of time hasn’t made it any easier. Every moment that we can, we crawl inside the warm body, knowing this will be one of the last times we feel the familiar comfort of a place we’ve come to know as home and cherish like family. As the days and hours run out, we watch the giant clock on the wall of Doyle’s tick forward with dread. The beloved staff do what they’ve always done, though they’re grieving
When we moved back into the neighborhood behind Doyle’s 10 years ago, my older daughter was two and a half years old. Although it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly when, somewhere along the way we began going to Doyle’s every Friday night. Two tired parents after one long week, we’d spend the first evening of each weekend hoping no one would mind that our picky eater was still refining her inside voice.