Letters to my Younger Self

It was eight years ago that I moved to Chicago. I packed up my things in Ann Arbor and arrived in the big city to "start my life." I had a job and a boyfriend and a cool apartment on Diversey. When I think about that time in my life, it seems all at once forever ago and just like yesterday. So cliche. But, so true. (Cliches exist for a reason, after all.) And so I have spent the last few days thinking of what I'd say to that girl, the one who bought all her furniture at Ikea and planted impatiens in the window boxes at that apartment on Diversey. What would I say if I knew there was a date when I'd be swept away from the city?

I don't know that I'd tell her anything, only because I feel my time in Chicago has been well-spent. On Saturday, I walked around that very first neighborhood, killing time before an appointment. I revelled in the graystones and wrought iron, materials so foreign to my suburban upbringing. The air was heavy with humidity and June rain. This is what I'll miss. I thought to myself.
I'm having a lot of those moments now, as I try to call it like it is, knowing it's something that can't be replicated. As Andy and Henry and I sat outside of our favorite diner, experiencing the accessories of our urban existence--bus exhaust mixing with coffee, a dog's barking melding with a blaring siren, it happened again. This is what I'll miss. I don't know why I'm doing this now, why I feel the need to consciously validate these snapshots of my life here. Maybe I was avoiding it before. (Such an activity is, after all, quite sad.) Maybe I want to find a way to hold on to that passing moment--to look across a table and freeze my 19-month-old son, the smile on Andy's face, the flavor of French toast and a great cup of coffee on my tongue--and know that, someday, my older self will be saying Look around, take it all in. Stop waiting because this is it, my friend.