Chicago, Illinois

I spent some time in Chicago, Illinois which was the birthplace of both of my parents. As it often goes in the midwest, many of my relatives are still living within 50 miles of where they grew up. Not to say I blame them, Chicago is one of the best cities in the country as far as I'm concerned. It makes sense though, I think, that I'm the first child of two people who migrated out cross-country to California before the age of 20 years old. 

Photos of my parents, grandparents, great grandparents, aunts, uncles, and to-this-day family friends after they moved out to southern California. These could easily be photos of me and some of my friends today! By the way, my dad is the one who looks like Robert Plant.







I always enjoy catching up with my family in the midwest. Somehow a group of people who were raised together have branched out into their own lives, all so utterly unique and different from the others. And while I'm in town, I get to hear the stories of their lives that explain why they've become who they are. Some of them are deeply religious and on a singular track headed in a very specific, predetermined (so they say) direction. I won't pretend to understand it, but it's interesting to see what keeps their spirits alive. Then there's my side of the family with the Arts running through their veins. My uncle has the best collection of music of anyone I've ever known in my life, and when I housesat for him and my aunt for two weeks I spent hours filling the living room with some of the best music in the world. There's a certain peace found in their home, and it was quiet. It was also large and empty and it reminded me that I am alone. Alone in general feels okay these days, but still there's something missing... 

The night before my aunt and uncle came home, I remembered that my aunt had set aside some old family photos and letters that my grandmother had kept for all of the years until her passing 12 months ago.  I put on one of my uncle's playlists (this one entitled "Sunday Morning", which seemed perfectly fitting since it was Thursday night), poured a glass of spicy Malbec, and began to dig through the pile of some of my grandmother's most valuable possessions. Grandma had kept every single letter and card I had ever sent her, and as I read through them I realized on every single one of them I had written that I missed her and wished she wasn't so far away. There's such an important, such a blatantly obvious lesson to be found in this. Be close, both literally and figuratively, to the ones we love. I'm lucky enough that I maintained a close friendship with my grandmother, but I wish I had more time with her. I wish I would have asked her the stories behind her jewelry that I now own, or to tell me about the day in the park during which she and my grandfather took some of the most adorable couple's photos that I've ever seen. 

I've always known the importance of family and of love, but now that I understand too well the burden of regret, I wonder even more pressingly so where to be and who to be with.