At first I tried to contain it, sing it in my head — all the joy you fill me with, inaudible to everyone but me, like my own private practice that I refuse to share. But the more I tried to merely think the words, the more my lips moved, the more the syllables escaped from my vocal cords, the louder I got until I didn’t need a microphone for the whole world to hear me.

You’ve got me dancing and singing along to Marvin Gaye, the happiness and warmth and hope leaking out of me in the form of flat notes and white girl dance moves because mercy, mercy me: how sweet it is that ain’t nothin’ like the real thing, baby.

The Chicago Ave. tunnel under Lake Shore Drive in Chicago.