I got a text from my mom this morning: “Made you an appt. with Marty for Friday, August 13, at 8:30. Going to try for the dentist the same week. Okay?” Sounds good, I replied.

As super as the prospect of visiting my gynecologist and dentist would be in regular circumstances (…), sounds good? But what do you say?

I’m beginning to grapple with the fact that August 13 is a date in the foreseeable future. The holiday weekend marked the halfway point of what has become a supersonic summer. At this time next month, I will be packing up my monstrous closet and de-flating my bed (both of which have served me quite well, thank you). I’ll be breaking apart that cubicle that has yet again proved its functionality. My bedroom won’t be much to tackle — it fit in my little red car on the way here, and God willing, it will fit on the way back.
That’s not what I’m worried about.
I’m worried about fitting everything on my Chicago bucket list into the next four weeks and doing it with the right person, the right people. I’m worried about leaving my sister. I’m worried about what happens when the summer’s gone, when I go back to my business as usual and life goes on in this beautiful city without me.
I’m worried about packing it all away into my heart and holding onto it until I can get back here for good.

August 13? Yeah, sounds great.

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