Humboldt Park

I vividly remember getting off the 50 bus in Humboldt Park this one December day. I usually took that bus dowtown and then transferred to the train, but that day I decided to take it all the way to California Ave. and then catch another bus. The bus ran through the Ukrainian Village, where the man I was in love with at the time lived. The neighborhood had beautiful old architecture and lots of little Ma and Pa stores with Ukrainian signs. There were even a few ornate churches with bulbous towers that made me feel like I really was in some Eastern European city. After the bus crosses Western Avenue it is like we are in a different part of the world. The buildings are run down and there is trash in the streets. The signs are in Spanish and English instead of Ukrainian and English. There are Taquerias and Puerto Rican Grocery stores. This is my neighborhood and these are the shadiest corridors of my neighborhood. I usually take the train to avoid having to transfer buses here. I could just walk the seven blocks home, but that would mean having to pass the park. The worse that will probably happen is a few cat calls or being hit up for change by a crack head, but I’m not in the mood. I wait a long time for my bus. It is only 6:30, but it is mid December, so it is already as dark as it will be. I am overcome with sadness as I wait. I will miss this city when I leave. I will be leaving soon. I will miss him. If only he would say he will miss me too. Then I might stay. I am secretly glad he can not deal with his emotions though, because I need to leave. It is freezing. I will be going somewhere less cold in the winter and less hot in the summer. This is what I need. Less freezing and boiling. My bus comes. There are so many women with children and dirty old men on this route. Coming home from work, coming home from day care, coming home. Later that night I will go over to his apartment, down the street from the church where the plaster angles wear coats of gold leaf and the kids wear blue plaid uniforms. We will pretend that we are not in love. I will pretend that I am not leaving him, and he will pretend that he does not care that he is being left. Somehow we will both regard this sorrow as being better than being alone.