Explosions rocked the grassy terrain, kicking up huge clods of dirt and plant bits and critter offal into the air. Jeremiah’s tanks rolled on unaffected, taking up a flanking position to infantry on the ground advancing in the west. Behind them, artillery boomed, huge things that belched smoke and fire.

Jeremiah watched from his perch high above the fighting. He was curious as to the nature of war and, for all the books he had read about it, it seemed easy. He remembered Jonah, the bully in his third grade class, who had told him something totally meaningful. “It don’t matter how much heart you got, or whatever it is grown ups say,” he spat through three missing teeth. “It’s how hard you punch the other kid in the face. Heart don’t have shit to do with that.”

As Jeremiah looked upon his army, he noticed that he indeed had the capability to punch the other kid in the face pretty damned hard. He had read about flanking, and feints, and shock and awe. He listened as his dad, a veteran of what he called “The Keyboard Wars” wax poetic about psychological warfare, and of being right all of the time, and all of the wars he had participated in and won.

But here before him was war. Bombs and bullets and some lasers too. He imagined the drone jockeys in some far off bunker remotely controlling instruments of death from the comfort of their own work-from-home chairs.

He remembered a time where he had scrimmaged against his older brother Dion, who had moved on to greener pastures to civilian life. It was only once, but it had left a huge mark. Dion had left his army in shambles after only a few tactical maneuvers, putting his younger brother on the defensive quickly and tragically. Jeremiah remembered being angry in the moment, then wondrous, then accepting that he had much to learn.

But those lessons had a indelible effect. And now, while pitched battle raged below, he sat satisfied as divisions of man and machine plowed their way forward. 

So intent was he on the battle unfolding below that he didn’t hear the person coming up on him. Finally sensing someone else, he jumped and whirled around.

“My, you’re really into that,” his mother said, hugging him and getting down on the floor with him. “You playing war again?” She took care not to sit on any of the green plastic army men, the plushies, and assorted Legos. She did notice, however, a few of her hair rollers and a rubber ducky that had gone missing some time before had second lives as members of Jeremiah’s army and air force.

“Yeah!” Jeremiah exclaimed, eager to show his mother of plans well laid and battle well met.

rev2 – 3.12.25

One thing about death is the thoughts that happen after it has touched your life. Memories, wishes, hopes, can all be hyper-analyzed and second-guessed til the cows come home or your blood pressure spikes, whichever comes first.

Over the past year, I’ve had to talk about death a lot. I’ve lost a lot of people in the past 8 months, and I’m still not right, but I noticed something that, well, isn’t the most socially acceptable thing to say out loud.

Death is a release in many ways. Not only from the mortal coil, but, amongst the living, the..relief? And that’s hard to say and admit, but it’s true.

For the past two months, I’ve been in a holding pattern while my mother-in-law declined. Watching that was painful, and to see someone I had so much respect and love for come closer and closer to death ate away at me. My wife, watching her mother encounter one medical hurdle after another, made a habit of driving an hour each way to be there for her, being her advocate in the hospital and in her hospice bed. Many a time I came home to an empty house, watching my phone for text updates.

With her gone, things are drastically different. No more hospital runs. No more light sleep, dreading the 3am phone call from a medical professional. The house projects could be scheduled again, knowing we’d be home for the AC man or the cleaners or the plumber. Possibilities opened back up, and that feels weird to say.

Of course, given my druthers, I’d rather have my mother-in-law still here. But quality of life is really important, and she decided she wanted no more parts of hospital beds and intubation, and I think to be able to go out on your own terms is a blessing we all won’t get to have.

But the collective exhale…she’s in a better place, free from pain…and the world, for the living, can start spinning again.

My mind is consumed with depressive thoughts. It doesn’t help that the post-holiday endorphin rush is over. That we are into our annual sunshine-less period in Chicago. That the return to work after having time off does not make me more energetic to go to work, but realize again that so many people are without in a country of plenty.

In addition to all that, people I love are in pain, and the empathy in me is having a hard time maintaining some sort of even keel. If I could absorb the hurt, the pain, the uncertainty…I would. That’s a superpower no one really wants, but the nature of these relationships I’m in are super in their own way, and I don’t do half-ass relationships.

But the investment in people leads to obvious issues; there’s no hurt like those you can’t do anything about. What do you say to someone facing financial ruin? What do you say to someone going through emotional turmoil? Even more to the point, what do you DO for those people? What do you do that makes a difference to the people you love, to society at large? To compete strangers, to your siblings, your parents, to everyone?

That’s where I’m at right now. And even though I know my reach is limited, and I can’t siphon energy like a Jean Grey, the wish is still there. I want my people happy, comfy, safe, and all of that. And while I draw breath, and have energy, I’m going to try to help that happen.

She’s gone inside, mentally exhausted. He sits outside, smoking the last of his cigar.

The taste of the Nicaraguan leaf swirls around the inside of his mouth as he stares up into the sky. He exhales, and the smoke hangs in the still night air, illuminated for a while by the porch light. If he squints, he can make out a star, shining dimly, but still shining. He closes his eyes tightly, then opens them, but things aren’t any clearer.

Across the world, at that very moment, there are people hurting, but he can only think of one person and her hurt. A hurt that he cannot fathom, but he has a front row seat to. He can only do so much, but there is so much he can’t do. And that is the worst feeling.

To want to help, but not being able to; is there no sadder circumstance?

He leans forward, puts out his cigar, takes the last sip of his bourbon, and heads inside.

One of the things so great/wondrous about social media is the ability to go in and out of rabbit holes, to have your attention for a few seconds before you think of something related and go of on that tangent. You learn the darnedest things that way, and often can’t wait to tell others about that time where you went looking for videos on how to paint a room and came out knowing the chord progression in a Kendrick Lamar song makes it sound extra melodic.

Anyway, I was appraised of these guys who do some very nice paint colors. I went from that, to a recollection; hadn’t I heard of a particular interior design style that uses color like this? A quick search led me to “Dark Academia” and this good video on that. That led to a discussion about what room we could do in this style, and cost and possible color and accessories. Then into looking for interior design classes offered by my local art schools.

Very excited. And all because of a fleeting question about dark walls in rooms.

A fun thing I’ve done recently is ask friends of mine if they feel like a Chicagoan.

These people have been here around 20+ years -I just realized that this year marks my 30th year In the Chicago area – and I have to ask the question. Do they feel “real”? What entails that? When did you get that feeling? What does a “real” Chicagoan do, or feel?

Besides the funny retorts – “a real Chicagoan puts no ketchup on their hot dog, hates going to O’Hare, and idolizes the ’85 Bears” – the question is a ponderous one.

Thing is, almost to a person, all of the people like me, who moved here in early adulthood, say that they consider themselves a Chicagoan…but not to born-and-raised Chicagoans. They have no problem telling their friends and family in other places that they are a Chicagoan, and thusly well versed in the city’s culture, happenings, and ephemera, but they cede the title of “real Chicagoans” to people born and raised here.

And I find that really telling. Myself, I was born a Comptonite, a Los Angeleno, a Californian. In the 30 years I’ve been in Chicago, I’ve gone back five times. But yet, I still feel weird about calling myself a Chicagoan to locals. I’m far removed from the goings on in my hometown, but I am still a part of its fabric somehow. And I would think I’m more ingrained here, but I struggled to figure out why I couldn’t own up to such.

Thing is, I get it now. I didn’t go to high school here. I didn’t hang out on State Street or 79th or Milwaukee with my friends while I was a teen trying to figure things out. I wasn’t around to savor the air when Harold was running for mayor, or feel the loss when he died. This place didn’t shape my beginning, my formative years, my “how does the world work”, because where I learned all that was 2,000 miles away and very different.

The label is very difficlut to assume because we are surrounded in our daily lives with people who went to school here. Catholic League. The Chicago accents. And while we’ve lived and expanded and nested here, we are not from here, and that makes a huge difference in how a lot of people see themselves.

I love this city, and have a ton of history here. I can go home and say that I’m a Chicagoan. I just know too much about what I missed by not growing up here to say that here.