What is it that I miss, when I miss Madison, Wisconsin? The long summers. The quiet walks I took every day along the rim of Lake Monona, where I untangled my thoughts. The street fairs. The crunchy co-op. The regular rotation of neighborhood cats.
And I miss being recognized—not as any form of distinction, merely as an acknowledgement of belonging. I miss belonging. Since I left, I’ve blown around like tumbleweed, never putting down roots. But in Madison, I had roots. The city was a map of my personal history, good and bad: the eclectic neighborhood I called home for years. The wide-open horizon before you’ve made too many wrong moves. The historical archives where I did my research, which were sunk in cool darkness even on the hottest days of the year. The park where I got married. The streets I paced after we fought. The attic where I lived after I left my husband. The porch where a friend and I sat and talked for a whole summer. My life made sense there, in a way it hasn’t made sense anywhere else.
But I also miss a place that no longer exists, or a place that now exists in reality the way things exist in bad dreams: familiar forms, deranged contents.
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