I had forgotten humidity, even in our mild winter this year. I woke up and my hair was three times its usual size - it’s expansion overnight was like the slow outburst of an active volcano. It continues to grow as the day wears on, attacking my face, causing my hair ties to surrender whatever control they might have had.
Winter turns into summer, and the moisture hangs in the air languidly, and you can hear birdsong again, and you have that feeling you used to have as a child in the last few weeks of school. Where you allow your mind to drift lazily out the window, and pray for the day in June where you will be let free to explore. The anticipation of summer is always better than summer itself.
Chicago has two real seasons, bookmarked by a fortnight each of spring and autumn, what we consider to be the best weather in the world. That we have them for only fleeting moments make them more savory when they happen: our appreciation of them never dwindles, even after years.
