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I left my desert hometown for Chicago almost a decade ago. Before moving to the shoe-box sized studio I lived in with an ex, I’d neither lived in a city or with another person who wasn’t family. Two biglike things to change at once. I wasn’t then really in the habit of taking those sort of risks, either. In fact, the move was so out of character that it fundamentally rent the image I and others had of me. When you are young, you are inclined to take these risks. Crosscountry, no plan, no job, no friends within 500 miles save the one I was living with, to a metropolis from the hills: things we do for love. Often unwise, but with luck a while lasting.

Returning to Chicagoland after having been gone for six years, I’m less the awkward boy gobsmacked by tall buildings and the scurrying patterns of people on the street. That person’s passed into time. And I’m very aware of all the things I’ve forgotten about the city: the order of the streets in the Loop, my old apartments’ addresses, whether or not I had made it to the Shedd while I was here (I did, incidentally: I can’t remember with whom, but I do know I was taken there).

Categories: Postcards.


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