Hallowed Ground

You sit across from me in a coffee shop, and we stare into our coffee as steam swirls lazily, whispering around our faces like curls. We’re pausing mid-sentence, wondering out loud how many places in the world are thin places, places suspended between heaven and earth. Places where humans tread hesitatingly.

And you say, softly, this is a good place.

I’m beginning to realize how often you say that. Here, in the city. And then, when we wandered through the late summer woods. When the stars were drowsy and deep and strung like string lighting through the branches. When we laughed on the road, our toes curling into the black asphalt, screaming away our loneliness like our throats would burst. When our bodies brushed, and I saw the November moonlight reflected on your face, and I caught you gazing at mine. When your heartbeat was as steady and aching as the thrum of wings.

At 6pm, Chicago is glowing shades of gold, and we take off our shoes. The city where we tread is hallowed ground.

Wonderingly, I agree: This is a good place. We are a place of prayer. As sacred as a cathedral, and as well-worn as a firelit cafe, with the sounds of traffic echoing off rain-soaked walls.