Topless

The icy rain that has not quit for two days makes me wonder whether I really drove with the top down in my convertible the other day. Maybe it was just another one of my topless dreams.

Waiting for spring to arrive in Chicago is like waiting for a baby to be born once the due date has passed. "When are you due?" people would ask when I waddled toward them, grimacing not so much from the weight of my ridiculously distended belly but from sheer frustration. Never I would think, once the brightly marked date on the calendar had come and gone. Winter and my pregnancies; they hang on greedily, refusing to yield to the promise of new life.

Eventually, my babies were born, and I expect that spring will arrive, like they did, when it's good and ready. The signs were there that day when I put the top down on my seven year old car, butt warmers blasting as my friend and I cruised back home from lunch via the "scenic" route (which wasn't all that scenic with the tree branches still as bare as they were in December). Still, despite the chill and the somewhat barren landscape, the day seemed filled with promise.

If you listen closely on the rare bright March days in Chicago, you can actually hear the birds chirping. You don't notice their months long absence when you're too busy wishing away the joint and muscle pain of winter, and you don't notice them once they've become part of the summer scenery. But in March, their songs are like a sold out symphony for which you feel blessed to have snagged tickets. Music to the ears, and to the soul.

If the weather forecasts are to be believed -- which they usually are when they're bad -- I won't be driving with the top down again for a while. But I'll be listening closely for the birds, who will reassure me that it won't be long.