Old Friends

As a Michigander in Chicago it is inevitable I run into people. This place is full of past. For me, my family, my friends.

But the particular domestic pleasure of walking through Andersenville on a sunny morning is multiplied when you recognize an old friend in the dappled crosswalk.

The gaunt gait and long jaw of my (first?) college friend were always distinctive.

“I thought I recognized those lips.” A peculiar yet trademark welcome after 12 years.

Though stylish and lithe as ever, he goes by a different name now.

I, too, am no longer the nickname he christened on my dorm room white board (though this is what he enters on his phone when we trade numbers).

Perhaps we will become new friends. This city was built on second chances.

Perhaps this echo of the past is enough. A reminder of what was when I rend myself with wonders of what’s next.

Either way, my morning is the brighter for it.


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