During Chicago’s April, citizens sniff a whiff of spring and exaggerate all gestures. We don’t unbutton coats. We abandon them. We don’t venture out. We explode onto sidewalks. We don’t respectfully court springy season. We grab her.
Opening day at Wrigley Field didn’t even pretend to be warmish but fans conjured sun, imagined it. Park grass nearest the lake is grey and smooshed but hibachis the size of small chickens roosted about, signalling pic-a-nics. A few shopkeepers, who elsewhere might be known as retailers, set out bowls of water outside their entries for passing, panting canines; of which there were none.
After two years living in Chicago, my city doesn’t feel like home; but it’s homey. I like how people strut here.