a morning ritual,

a Friday baptism

by Chicago summer.

my

toes align

with the edge

of the concrete beach,

the 7 am sun already beating down

over the city skyline in the distance.

hundreds of strangers in swimsuits

standing neatly in a row,

the collective

boom boom boom

of heartbeats and stillness

in anticipation

as we wait to rid ourselves

of the sins of winter.

a megaphone

a countdown

a psalm of sorts

3…2…1

jump!

and I do,

plunging straight into icy waters,

engulfed in

cold

and nothing else.

mind frozen,

legs desperately kicking

to break the surface,

I gasp the warm morning air.

I emerge

to an uproar of belly laughs

and cheers,

a celebration of rebirth.

I’m not the same

as I was

only moments ago on the ledge,

unfamiliar with

the holiness of

the communal ice bath,

our bobbing bodies

passing smiles

and brushing limbs

as we tread in the clear depths

of Lake Michigan

together.

heart racing,

adrenaline coursing,

I look toward the sky.

I feel awake

I feel alive

I feel anew,

anointed with

an electric jump start.

Slow dancing in the kitchen alone,

swaying side to side,

sweet mango to my lips

in my oversized tshirt

and underwear

coffee brewing on the counter

a splash of sugar syrup in my mug,

cat on the windowsill staring in amazement

as I glide across the hardwood,

eyes closed,

to slow songs meant for weddings,

not in love with anyone

except myself.

happy

happy

happy

Once,

just once,

I’d love to hear

the three words

I’ve never heard:

I choose you.

Until then

I’ll say them to myself

again

and again

and again.

I sit alone on the back porch

surrounded by pots of purple,

newly planted begonias

and the sky swirls with hints of pink

as the sun starts to set

over the rooftops and cable lines

of Wicker Park.

This is one of my favorite spots.

Home.

I’ve spent a lot of time here this past year.

Too much.

I sit with a bowl filled to the brim

with strawberry rhubarb crisp,

my mom’s recipe,

still hot from the oven,

topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream—

I knew I had to make it

the moment I stumbled across

fresh rhubarb at the farmer’s market.

I slowly savor

each bite,

letting the ice cream melt

faster than I really should.

I don’t care.

It tastes like summer.

I close my eyes,

spoon in mouth,

and let the silence of the past year

shift into the sounds

of my neighbors

playing Paul Simon on their guitars next door

and the hearty laughs

of the people eating

on the restaurant patio downstairs.

This is what the world feels like lately—

Flowers and dessert

and acoustic guitar

and laughs

and a little bit of magic.

I scoop another bite with my spoon.

I smile.

I sit alone on the back porch.

I’m not the slightest bit lonely.

They say there’s no crying in baseball,

but tonight I almost broke the rules

during the 7th inning stretch

because we weren’t stretching our legs,

but rather our arms

around each other.

Touching.

Yes, touching.

Swaying.

Singing.

Taking in maskless breaths

and the pink sunset over the scoreboard

at Wrigley Field.

Take me out to the ballgame,

take me out to the crowd.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a crowd.

The song carried through the stadium,

a sweet cacophony of voices,

a harmonic cry of freedom.

I smiled

and belted out singing

and my heart swelled

knowing two things for certain:

life is better

with vaccines

and baseball.

It’s the little ones

that break my heart the most,

through the Montessori school window—

playing on the ground

not understanding why

they’re living in a world

without smiles.

You call it dinner—

I call it ridiculous

but the truth of it is,

I could get used

to the sweet and the spice

and your faint southern drawl

grazing my lips more often.

Let’s spend more Sunday nights

pretending Monday won’t find us

entwined under your covers.

“What’s your favorite color?”

you ask me

and I freeze.

You laugh

because I’m thinking too hard,

like there must be a correct answer.

No one has asked me that

since I was a kid.

Ironic—

because the way you’re making me blush

whisks me into a world

of childlike whimsy

where time disappears

and suddenly I have

nowhere to be,

nothing to do,

but stand here,

watching you

cook us scallops on your stove.

“Oh man,” I say, “I don’t even know anymore.

What’s yours?”

You shuffle to the sink.

“Easy,” you say.

Being with you is easy.

I admire the rag over your shoulder

and your soapy hands—

you don’t even let me help clean.

I pour us another drink.

“It’s yellow.”

And somehow it makes sense

when you put down your glass

and shift your hips toward mine

and smell the bourbon on my breath

and lean into our static

and pull me in

and press your lips to mine

and for the first time,

my heart bursts

into Yellow.

They’ve been screaming

and we’ve put in headphones

playing songs of privilege,

pretending it’s not our problem

and drowning out the pleas

to please

make it stop.

But this time

when the blood hit the streets,

the blood soaked our hands,

and the cries were no longer enough.

Instead,

they sent

Smoke Signals

to the world—

buildings up in flames

to match the fire in their hearts

hoping if we watch our cities burn

maybe this time

we will LISTEN.

Dear God,

We better fucking listen.

#blacklivesmatter

Just when I thought

the Sun had betrayed me

to shelter in place

somewhere deep in grey clouds,

her sweet kiss

brushes my shoulder

and wakes me from a restless night of sleep.

The shadows make way

for her gentle sweeping hand

golden

across my face.

I smile.

She keeps me company

and I drink in her warmth

and nestle in the neck

of her yellow light

and I’m reminded

of patience

and blue skies

because she always comes back.

She always comes back.