Wabash Bridge at Midnight

The train halted at Grand tonight. I was antsy. I got out and walked the extra 10 minutes. Felt the cold Chicago wind ripple my hair across my face. Saw the blue tower on the Wrigley building lit up. And walked my large cowboy booted steps past the monstrous Trump towers. The city was quiet. Wacker Drive, bustling with taxis and the speed of rush hour traffic was a distant hum of a memory--it was a playground for hopscotch and a jaywalking stroll. I lingered on the Wabash Bridge, looking down at the ripples of the Chicago River, my heart beating to a tune still in my head from the story-telling concert I had just spent the evening with. A sigh came out and blended into to the echo of my wooden soles and the gentle water breeze--a sigh of heartache from love. A sigh of puzzlement from the distance travelled with these two legs of mine over pavement, sand, rock and whatever else my soles have landed on by themselves, on their own. Yet, in the quiet stillness of the empty streets the bridge that I crossed over felt like a metaphor. The love we give and live with is a bridge toward the unknown, the mystery, and the pain that comes with the crossing, the traveling is one that all travelers feel. There is no plan to this adventure. There are only bridges that are yet to be built and stories to be shared about the bridges to islands yet to be discovered. I paused at  the BMW motorcycle parked outside the Swissotel and secretly wanted to jump on it. Feel the road. Feel the wind. Feel the thrill of connecting to the rush of motion. The Taxi sign pointed to an empty lane. The steps down to the park below echoed under my footstpes. No dogs in the park. The doorman smoking a cigarrette outside one of the buildings nods in surprise as I pass by in my hooded jacket with flying strands of blonde hair dancing around my face. Hands gently swaying. I glance around me, wondering why I do not feel scared at this hour. And I laugh as I remind myself that that was a silly thought. I shimmy through the revolving door. Hello to the night doorman. A big black guy, whom I always feel happy to see. I press 5 on the elevator. My apt opens to the remains of my dinner--sweet potatoes and wild rice. The floor is covered with the laundry I was about to do and underneath it lies several yoga mats waiting expectantly for their next students. Washing my face I notice I a tear stained cheek. I feel my heart. It knows. It knows what the tear said. I look in the mirror my eyes hold my gaze. I ponder my reflection, and receive the human emotion of the moment. Sigh. Life travels just as I watched the river underneath a wooden planked bridge. As cliched as this sounds, I never would have expected the distance that my heart has traveled, nor have wanted anything to be any other way. Acceptance, it's what I look for in the mirror before I turn off the light. I accept what is now, and know that it is enough to just be me.