Etched in Her Heart

Dear Avid Reader,

Sun’s up in Chi-Town. As this gemstone swings between a mild heat wave and arctic temperatures that only scare away the thin-blooded, everything is in flow and this flow is everything.

The sky is as blue as the depths of Lake Michigan that are visible in front of a ghostly curtain of lake affect snow. Flocks of Canadian geese, along with brave winter bicyclists, runners, and walkers, glide up and down her iced shoreline which, by noon, with a pleasant weather forecast on Friday, transforms to slush. Standing like a candy-cane at the breakwater and east of the mouth of the Chicago River, the Chicago Harbor Lighthouse assures us winter will pass. Buckingham Fountain stands dormant and frosted with a thin layer of snow that melts by 2:00PM. The inbound Metra train shouts three times upon its arrival to the Van Buren Station. Grant Park appears filled with long-legged and lofty tumbleweed, the winter fashion of crabapple, honey locust, maple, and American elm trees. The CTA bus transferring morning commuters pulls up to the corner of Ida B. Wells and South Michigan Avenue and lets out its shifts and squeaks and exhausts of energy in a timely manner. The Spearman and The Bowman, the pair of ninety-seven-year-old bronze equestrian sculptures created intentionally without the bow and spear by Croatian sculptor, Ivan Meštrović, (there’s a productive hour spent going down a Chicago rat hole of learning), pillar Congress Plaza. The intersecting traffic at this limb of the city, both on foot and on wheels, is civilized and fluent. On the curb of the Plaza, a waste and recycle bin, waiting for garbage service, stand neatly side by side. Their silhouette, which appears in the first lane of Michigan Avenue, is a spitting image of New York’s fallen Twin Towers. For three days now, a lone orange construction cone sleeps sideways a foot from the same curb. From the crosswalk box, a computerized voice instructs pedestrians when it is safe to WALK across the street though he doesn’t tell a turning car waiting for these pedestrians his bumper is a fourth of an inch over the transverse lines. A taxicab, driven by a human driver, takes the bend from Congress Circle onto Michigan Avenue then zips north. From the south, a deafening fire engine rushes to a rescue followed by the gurgled siren of an ambulance then the staccato siren of a Chicago police car. Walking along the Plaza with a purpose unfazed by the noise, a lean, elder woman dressed in a camel plaid coat, a neon red beanie with matching socks, carries a plastic grocery bag which seems to balance her uneven gate. A crow, perched on the bend of a streetlight, seemingly both out of place and at home, caws in unison with the reverse beep of a box truck inching into a narrow alley. Strewn rock salt on sidewalks, shaded from the sun, collects like leftover Carnivale confetti. Students saunter to classrooms at Roosevelt University, DePaul University, East-West University, and Columbia College. The Bucket Boys, situated in front of the Art Institute, flanked by the iconic and nameless green patinaed lions, play a lively, thunderous beat with and without the free-will tips from locals and tourists alike. The rattle of the “L” floats through the air and drifts together with scents of skunk and Fruity Pebbles. A woman in front of Chik-Fil-A, standing in the breeze without a hat or coat, not even a scarf, asks passersby for three dollars so she can buy a meal. Orchestra Hall sleeps while the Chicago Symphony is on winter tour, last night gifting its talent to The Magic City that is Miami.

A group of friends, maybe from out of town, maybe from another part of town, linger in the middle of the sidewalk holding iced grandi and hot ventis, their gaze toward the diamond in the skyline discussing if they should walk toward the Magnificent Mile. In the darkened storefront of Kilwins, eighty-nine nut-studded and dark chocolate drizzled caramel apples along with forty-one pretzel sticks to match, are placed neatly on the marble countertop waiting for the shop’s 1:00PM daily opening. Walking north and nearly latching himself to the buildings, a man struts with a walker. Another man leans against the Van Buren Street Station entrance and smokes a cigarette. A third who has a greying stubbly beard, stands at his daily spot, twelve feet over, near the entrance’s elevator. With a large, uncapped Dunkin’ cup in his hand, he offers a jovial greeting to every person who walks past him. A woman with a solid stride, wearing a backpack and sneakers embellished with city grit, reaches in her pocket, drops her daily contribution in his cup, and keeps walking with an undeterred pace. A ballet dancer and violin, unassuming figures constructed from moss and greenery staked snugly against tree trunks growing in stone flower planters in front of the Fine Arts Building, a historic hub for all the arts, endure the seasonal elements. While determining their location on their phones, a couple, her wearing a navy wool beret and chestnut lace up work boots, he a Canon camera with a neck strap as a crossbody, look up and down the sidewalk and up and down the sidewalk again then at the planters. They study these delightful pieces of art with the curiosity of which one dissects an ancient painting or a favored poem. They look behind them at the ten-floor building. They step toward the sidewalk sign advertising the independent bookstore, Exile in Bookville. They peak through the windowed front doors framed with fluted and flower chair molding painted turquoise. They pull the leaf embossed antique brass door handles. They walk inside under the stone threshold etched with the words, “All passes—Art Alone Endures,” and disappear.

“All Passes—Art Alone Endures.”

“All Passes—Art Alone Endures.”

“All Passes—Art Alone Endures.”

Every day is a beginning. Rush slowly and be surprised.

Until,

Marie