When the final whistle blows, the teams are still tied (good job, you did your best!), and we scurry to the vehicle to thaw out—at least briefly—before heading home. Walking in from the backyard, a fat robin hops through the garden, pausing to regard me with critical brown eyes. And there, by the house, a pop of color: the first daffodil of the season has fought its way up and stands bravely alone in a cluster of green foliage, drops of icy rain still clinging to its leaves and petals like tiny declarations of survival.
A sign of the mythical season of spring in Chicago—like street sweepers, Cubs night parking restrictions, and the first pale purple lilac buds appearing on lanky, bare branches. The grass in the yard is still patchy, and the fragrant, if invasive, mint has yet to take over my flower beds—but the
signs are beginning to appear. Before I know it, mornings will lose their crisp edge, and I’ll begin to leave our back door open to just the screen, allowing warm afternoon air to drift into the kitchen as I make dinner. We’ll fire up the grill and use the first tender
chives from the herb garden to top chicken skewers, biding our time until the tomatoes are ready in summer.
I contemplate a fresh cup of coffee and hang my coat to dry, knowing I’ll need it again tomorrow. But I can feel something shifting, and it won't be long until the sun returns. For now, the sundresses remain in my cart, not my closet. But
the signs are here—subtle and stubborn, just like my city. A daffodil. A robin. A whisper of lilac on the breeze. Spring will arrive when it’s ready.
And when it does, I’ll be ready, too.