Water Waves

I recently visited my old neighborhood in Chicago, and took a walk past my old apartment, right across from Lake Michigan at the very northern tip of the city. It was a quiet early morning, just me and the wind and the waves, and reminded me of past quiet early mornings, when I was putting myself back together. This draft is one facet of several facets of that morning that I tried to describe in my journal.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe text from the cleaner read:"It is a beautiful place. I like the living room andhearing the water waves." Later the same day, I carried my broken self into the new space,curled up on the unmade bed,started to heal. I visit years later,walking briskly around the corner and turn right --the water wavescrash up and over the rocks,white-tipped backbends in the early Spring chill.I stand on the walk outside my old front doorlistening to the sound of watercrashing, breaking, eroding,edging ever closer to the building.This is the sound of healing.The rhythm that cracks apartthen hones the sharpness into facetsrare, like diamonds.