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Wicker Park, Chicago: Twelve Years Since We've Seen Each Other by Katherine Van Eddy

Today, a surprise snowstorm

in April, after sunny and 70s,

just in time for our re-meeting.

The snow falls

as stinging rain, freezing

our faces as we trudge

between restaurants

and bookshops,

neighborhoods he knows.

Nothing sweet, or soft.

The wind howls.

We don’t talk

as we walk. Crossing streets

he moves on ahead,

does not offer me his elbow

does not look back

to see I’ve made it safely around

the expanses of water off curbs.

Inside The Wormhole,

he orders me Earl Grey tea.

He drinks espresso while we sit

apart on a couch, close enough

to hear our fits and starts

of conversation over the hum

of strangers around us.

We were 80s babies,

grew up with what’s around us:

Ghostbusters and Indiana Jones

movie posters, classic Nintendo,

computer monitor the size of

a mini fridge, and above us,

a reconstructed DeLorean,

traveling to no future.

Drifting on the once infinite sea

of things to say,

we are nearing shore,

where it looks dry, and warm.


 

Katherine Van Eddy is a California-born poet who now lives in Washington State. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Common Ground Review, Creative Colloquy, Gold Man Review, Cirque, and Clover. She has a BA in Creative Writing, MAT in Elementary Education, and MFA in Poetry from the Rainier Writing Workshop at Pacific Lutheran University. Katherine loves mothering her two kids and cat, Dexter. She feels most at home anywhere near water.

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