WE ALL

 WE ALL

 

Ten years ago, I left my hometown,

escaped the bubble to never return again.

Yet, it is still a part of me:

The manicured lawns and picturesque homes

are baked into my 28-year-old identity.

 

Does it hit so close to home

because it is my home?

Or because it could have been my

parents who were killed?

It could have been me who

was shot in front of my children.

 

The bubble of the illustrious HP is forever

broken now. The papers will call our city

affluent

bucolic

well-off.

Maybe that matters or maybe

we all are just humans who grew up in the same town.

 

We all savored Dairy Queen cones after a sticky summer bike ride.

We all tried to evade parking tickets in the Metra station lot junior year.

We all knew the feeling of sinking into the Walker Bros. corner booth.

We all laid down picnic blankets on the Ravinia lawn and felt the privilege

of living next to a renowned music venue, with a stage that transformed as

we all strode across at high school graduation.

 

We all are affected,

whether we were there or miles away.

We all will never be the same.

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