The ghosts won’t come to rest. For months, I’ve culled their mythology, steeped it in Chicago history and flashes of abrupt beauty. Close my eyes—their tale dodges me. Open my eyes? I see the passways of their restless circling. I frame and then run as the image materializes.
Day, night: there are doors to be opened, barriers finessed.
I will not tell you how they died but if you know Chicago's twentieth century back to almost its start, you would know their cries.
They live here. They remember heartbeats in blood that once flowed freely. They do not sleep.
They hide in rain, they play in darkness.
They were only ever children.