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When you say Chicago, this is what I’d see: the grid quick frying in the July heat; the white carpet of the park in December; the underside of the Brown Line pounding overhead; the impossible beauty of the lake in the morning, blue or green or gray; taxis blowing speed limits and running red lights up and down Michigan Avenue; and commuter students smoking on the sidewalk.
So much of who we are is tangled in place; a country, a city, a corner. I didn’t want to be there anymore. That doesn’t mean it was easy to leave.
But here’s the thing: There’s never a right time to have a dog. To have a child if you so choose. To fall in love or write a book or perform a poem or put your heart on the goddamn table. I’ll go to the next open mic, we say. And: Next month I’ll sign up for a class. And: I’ll quit my job later. Doesn’t matter that I’m miserable, I have to wait for the lateral move or the substantive raise or the fully funded position and hey, how’s that going for you?
