I have a habit of reliving past years, of looking through my former things, books, pictures, homes in my mind's eye. Always only a few years back, polishing the edges of image so that in my memory that period of my life is smooth and jewel-like. Today I was thinking about this:
I had a one bedroom apartment not far from the Frank Lloyd Wright studio in Oak Park. The outside was red brick and dull. You would look past it and not look twice. The lobby was dim and the stairs carpeted and creeky. The banisters, though, were a polished wood, and a small panelled window with colored glass let in a little light as you walked up. When you opened the heavy wooden front door you walked into a small hall, very narrow. To the right was a bathroom and bedroom, to the left was a closet, and straight ahead was a very large room with white walls and polished wooden floors. The original floor in a building many, many years old. The floors were warm in winter because the pipes for the heating ran under them, so that you could walk barefoot no matter how cold.
In the kitchen, I had a row of glass bottles on the window ledge, empty bottles in different colors, one a dark green bottle that had once held dark porter. After work, I would change into sweats or yoga clothes, turn the radio to NPR, turn the switch on the gas stove so that the blue flame flickered and cook dinner. I would chop tomatoes and onions and cilantro. I would boil water and slice bread and cheese. I might pour myself a glass of wine (rarely) or make some tea to keep me company while I cooked. The friendly sounds of Market Place and then the BBC World Report and then jazz. I might read after dinner, for a while, my copies of Vanity Fair, The Weekly Standard (don't ask), the Economist. I might talk to my brother or my parents on the phone, or call friends and make plans for the weekend. I might call my neighbor upstairs for a walk or do a bit of yoga. Nothing so different from life as I know it today. Full and peaceful. But, as I recall, that was also a year of lovely turmoil and confusions and entreaties and tears and joy. I might tell you more, but not everything need be public.
I recall: driving along Lake Shore Drive listening to electronic sounds cut with tabla, heart full, heart afraid. I didn't know the future then. I know it now. I know a part of it now. I know a part of it now.
Recent Comments