In St. Charles, about an hour from Chicago, there's a cement tunnel under a highway,
where boys wrote hate notes to each other and girls scribbled names of the people they'd do
if their parents didn't always have the kitchen lights on.
This tunnel, with the perpetual river down the middle, even in hair frying July,
connected my town to Wasco.
Here, a post office, a corner store specializing in dime candy, and a gas station
with two pumps, but only one that worked.
Here, a woman who looked like my grandmother walked up and down the street,
smiling at everyone with that toothy grin, almost cliche. I saw forever from that corner.
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