Yesterday was typical in a way that I had forgotten it could be - a plan that was changed at the last minute (and still then hardly set) for a day in the city. And so I end up chasing buses, twice, and catching them both. I am particularly proud of hounding the 6 from the 57th street to the 56th street stop, considering that I couldn't cut through the park with the snow and the bus got a turning arrow by the museum and I was wearing the wrong shoes. I'm glad I thought to zip up my keys in a pocket first. And then State Street, with more shopping on it than I ever remember I want to do, and walking in circles until my feet got too tired. The Art Institute for presents, and Marshall Fields (why are they always out of what I want?) and lunch with Ben and German things, which somehow, every year, still cost more than I expect them to. And we didn't even get mulled wine, the very reason Ethan wanted to be there. But the weather was fine, with bright skies and little wind, and there was no waiting for buses (clearly) and we did catch the 10 on the way home for a startlingly quick journey - early enough to miss traffic, apparently. Crunching snow on the way home while Ethan laughs at me. This is Chicago life.
The earth lies shrouded tonight, perhaps indicating that this is the end, that we have suffered the worst and a reprieve or warmth or sun will soon come. I walk unable to see the corners and startle at a cracking, falling branch. The air is covered, the trees are covered, the sidewalks are slick. I felt like tidepooling, waiting for the bus this morning before footprints marred that amazing, clear, shrinkwrapped cover of ice on the world. I wonder who looks at me through the fog looking through the ice.
Swirling from east to north - no matter where I turn the flakes accumulate on my hair, my hat, my jacket, my backpack - I look out at a speckled world, see the shadows of the falling on the fallen by the lone streetlight. I am warmly cold, choosing the empty streets devoid of the profane mundane - gas stations, classrooms, streetlights - not many are out - are those few silent respectfully, as I? It's only been falling for an hour, a welcome surprise upon trudging up the stairs from the bright classroom, lugging tables, adjusting inputs, extra class that no one wanted yet everyone enjoyed - I come out and up last, lights off, pushing the heavy door, wondering at the ice on the steps, wishing for better shoes and then curious at the stillness, the calm. It fall and quells sound, sight, movement, the cars are slower the buses near silent and I feel as if it is all, momentarily, mine.
