a love letter of sorts

Dear Chicago,

It’s been four months since I left you.

Four and a half, if we want to get exact.

I feel like in the past four and a half months every memory I’ve had with you from the previous seven and a half years has floated up from my sub-conscious, surprising me with remembering pangs while I’m performing the most mundane tasks—brushing my teeth in the morning, checking my email, blinking.

I think about moments that were never important enough to resurface. Mediocre minutes spent in a downtown grocery store----waiting for the bus on Broadway----sharing the sidewalk with strangers.

I wonder sometimes if I’m getting close to running out of my memories—and in desperation my mind is reaching far back for anything related to you.

So far, in my life, seven and half years is the longest relationship I’ve had. It may sound strange, crazy, to think of our anything as a “relationship,” but I knew before I left it was the end of whatever word you can use to describe what we had. It felt different.

It feels very right, here, in my new home—my new city. It feels very hopeful, to be corny.

I do think about you often---and it’s familiar, this fresh break-up ache of loneliness and anxiety and fear of running into you at the post office and smiling brightly while my stomach sits on the top of my shoes.

Thank you for keeping me warm and safe for seven and a half years. And for teaching me a couple of things about living and life.

Take care of yourself.

Love,
Me.