Monday, August 3, 2015

Lines of Familiarity

The other day taught me to understand my place.
As I walked down Michigan Avenue on a cool summer afternoon,
right of the Lake in Chicago,
I began seeing lines radiating from each passersby.
Some lines intersected,
and continually lines connected.
Above those lines that interwove - obstructing my view of the sparkling lake water -
it was noted the relationships one person had with the next.

Spiralling masses encircled my perimeter at the great Cloud Gate,
yet I'd often find myself entangled in my own twining figure.
I saw myself among so many others in that mirror,
the lines shining in blunt green hues:
luminescent emerald where my fourth cousin stood somewhere under shade
at the Lurie Garden,
and weak pine, branching in cardinal directions across the Promenade,
where stood relatives multiple times removed.

For that day I floated along on my own familiarity with the world.
I did not soon forget the faces of those I passed when I next awoke,
and found that I could no longer see the familial web,
for instead I cherished each person at their core.

In my quiet knowledge I knew my place among everyone
without color,
and for that I loved them all the more.

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