Goodnight Chicago, You Were Mine

It is my last Saturday night in Chicago. My room is packed, my roommates out, and I lie on my bed and listen to the city.

Tonight is a great night to be here. With summer-like temperatures and the return of Chicago sports domination, everyone celebrates, proud to be a Chicagoan. Outside my apartment on North Avenue, traffic jams the street. Horns honk, twentysomethings shout from taxis, radios fade in and out as cars drive by with open windows. Bits of drunken conversations float up to my window. Our neighbors host a party and the base thumps. There’s a light drizzle, amplifying the city sounds and washing away a gray winter. On nights like this I feel young and carefree and think of nothing but the moment at hand.

The night is close to me in my dark room, the excitement palpable, and I feel as though I’m already looking at it from the window of a jet plane. It is my last Saturday night in Chicago, and instead of dancing at Danny’s or laughing with friends, I take it in from a distance, as though I am already gone.

When I left college behind, I did it en mass, as my peers and I collectively embarked on the first real journey of our adult lives. When I left Korea behind, I shared a unique set of experiences with a small, tightly bonded group of friends. This time, leaving Chicago and moving to Denver is mine and only mine. No one else will pursue this dream job with me nor will they see the newness of Denver as I will see it. For the first time in my life I move alone.

I spent a significant portion of my childhood watching brothers and sisters go to college and beyond, watching them travel to exciting cities with interesting people, far from the humdrum of Green Bay. I ached as I watched them go and the number of people affecting my daily life dwindled. I became accustomed to feeling left behind and vowed that one day I would be the one to leave for a bigger life.

Apparently, being on the other side of leaving does not make the grieving any smaller. It’s bittersweet to realize that my life and my friends’ lives are about to diverge. I listen to my roommates make plans for next weekend and am suddenly aware that I no longer factor in. When I’m busy in Denver, my friends will still be discovering Chicago, celebrating Blackhawks’ victories, visiting Danny’s and the Violet Hour, soaking up Lake Michigan and summers in Grant Park. In all the excitement for Denver, I only considered the life awaiting me; I did not anticipate how I would grieve the life I leave behind.

So here I am, Saturday night on the unofficial beginning of Chicago’s glorious summer, and it passes me by on the street below, my life as a Chicagoan already in the past. I feel a conglomeration of emotions as I see what life here looks like without me. I watch myself disappear from the Chicago landscape, nostalgic, reflective, a little sad to see it go. It is my last Saturday night here and all I have left to say is Goodnight Chicago, you were mine.