We Run Our Story All Through It

My feet pounded the pavement along Lake Shore Path this morning, sometimes faster, sometimes slower.

The familiar curve of the path took me around that bend where you turn around and see the city rise up in her formation, the Hancock, the Trump, the Willis.

I gasp for breath, though I don't know whether from the sunlight sparkling on Lake Michigan at the base of the city, or from lungs, trying to keep up.

The city is like a time line arranged into a grid, little tick marks around every corner documenting where I first laid eyes on him, where we first got coffee, where he said "I love you," where I wore that blue dress.

Chicago becomes the significantly better version of herself in the summertime, and we run our story all through it.

Beneath an overhead heavens of strands of lights and hanging baskets heavy with blooms, our table of two at the Kerryman patio (best outdoor patio in the city, if you're asking me) marks another place on this city-turned-story map.

"That hot summer Sunday night.  I spilled to him under patio lights all that I was taking in from my current reading, One Thousand Gifts.

How I love to talk to that man about books.

His brown eyes surprised me with pooled tears as he urged me about what he believes I can do. 
Ways he believes my gifts to be good. 
How he wants me to water buds he believes can bloom.
He believes.
In me." 
That makes the map.

Husband.  Life with you is so dear to me.
Your brown eyes are my favorite place to be.

And the story goes on.