some spaces to cry:
the edge of a sea green bathtub
because they shouldn’t be texting you
Monday chapel
if the worship team makes you sing songs about ashes
a full-length mirror crudely stuck to the wall
you’ll think you look like a monster
on Amazon
while looking for a cheap, single-serve coffee maker
the kitchen sink where you brush your teeth sometimes
this is where all the best ideas are born and the dishes don’t get washed
the newsroom after-hours
so, very late
a bed lofted above a desk, a dresser, and a shelf that is too small for all your books
but the tissues are on the ground so you have to climb down to blow your nose
on the phone with Mama
she’s your first call, always
the refrigerator with a green and white magnet that says “YAY! LLAMAS!”
when it’s midnight and you need milk to go with your mug of cereal
walking back to the apartment
don’t make eye contact with the people on the other side of the sidewalk
Friday chapel
this is your one day off from work
on the plane flying back to ORD from SFO
because suddenly Chicago feels like home
this is your sabbath
rest and release
Eliana Chow 
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