I form a romantic relationship with every city I live in. I look wistfully back on dating San Francisco and I’ve washed my hands completely of Holland. Oakland still has a special place in my heart, but we could never see each other again. Maine must be crazy if she thinks I’m ever going to call her.
I’ve been dating Chicago for the last five years and it’s been great. Truly wonderful. Recently, I’ve been making slow and steady plans to move back out west. The wheels have begun to turn, almost imperceptibly, in that direction and the smaller timeframe of life here in Chicago has re-kindled my romance with her. She’s noticed the attention and rewarded me in these past days by exploding in warmth and color. She really is the perfect girlfriend. Complex, articulate, proud and wild. I love every inch of her. From her skinned and band-aided knees in the south loop, where concrete and steel still clang in her ever upward quest for recognition, to her Lake Shore drive that curls around the nape of her neck as it hugs the water’s edge. I love her old Latina women, who laugh on their porches in Logan Square and the quiet shaded avenues of Uptown, where West African men cook food in their front yards and dance with their children. I feel proud to be with someone with such a complex history to whom so many incredible poets have written love hymns. Despite all of their attention she has still wanted to envelope me so completely that I felt HOME for the first time in a very long while. It was the first time I moved in with a girlfriend. Her name was Chicago.
Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs. Winter would approach suddenly, leaving me with my cold hands in my pockets muttering, “We’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.” and praying I was right. Sometimes I would stay inside for days just so I wouldn’t have to confront her. It would get better, though. It always did, although something was a little different each time. A wariness. A feeling of apprehension and anticipation of our next inevitable cold spell. Winters can be a real bitch here.
Last night, as I stood on my roof, her skies opened up with thunder and rain lashed down from above. She was there in all her glory and all of her strength. I faced skyward and held out my arms.
And now I wonder, when I sit on a friends porch some years from now, with a beer in my hand and sweat on my brow watching the California sun dip lower behind the hills, will I be happy? Will I love my new girlfriend, Los Angeles? Or will my mind drift back to my last girl? My heartland. My Chicago.
I form a romantic relationship with every city I live in. I look wistfully back on dating San Francisco and I’ve washed my hands completely of Holland. Oakland still has a special place in my heart, but we could never see each other again. Maine must be crazy if she thinks I’m ever going to call her.
I’ve been dating Chicago for the last five years and it’s been great. Truly wonderful. Recently, I’ve been making slow and steady plans to move back out west. The wheels have begun to turn, almost imperceptibly, in that direction and the smaller timeframe of life here in Chicago has re-kindled my romance with her. She’s noticed the attention and rewarded me in these past days by exploding in warmth and color. She really is the perfect girlfriend. Complex, articulate, proud and wild. I love every inch of her. From her skinned and band-aided knees in the south loop, where concrete and steel still clang in her ever upward quest for recognition, to her Lake Shore drive that curls around the nape of her neck as it hugs the water’s edge. I love her old Latina women, who laugh on their porches in Logan Square and the quiet shaded avenues of Uptown, where West African men cook food in their front yards and dance with their children. I feel proud to be with someone with such a complex history to whom so many incredible poets have written love hymns. Despite all of their attention she has still wanted to envelope me so completely that I felt HOME for the first time in a very long while. It was the first time I moved in with a girlfriend. Her name was Chicago.
Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs. Winter would approach suddenly, leaving me with my cold hands in my pockets muttering, “We’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.” and praying I was right. Sometimes I would stay inside for days just so I wouldn’t have to confront her. It would get better, though. It always did, although something was a little different each time. A wariness. A feeling of apprehension and anticipation of our next inevitable cold spell. Winters can be a real bitch here.
Last night, as I stood on my roof, her skies opened up with thunder and rain lashed down from above. She was there in all her glory and all of her strength. I faced skyward and held out my arms.
And now I wonder, when I sit on a friends porch some years from now, with a beer in my hand and sweat on my brow watching the California sun dip lower behind the hills, will I be happy? Will I love my new girlfriend, Los Angeles? Or will my mind drift back to my last girl? My heartland. My Chicago.
