Today on my way to the train home, a smile spread across my tired grouchy-face when I found that Mr. Trumpet had found a friend. A kid who could not have been older than thirteen was there with his trumpet and regulation middle school black hard case.
The smile remained as I created the story in my head to how they came to be playing these sweet concerto tunes on this underground sidewalk.
For a moment, my heart was full of love for Chicago, the home for unlikely friendships formed by unlikely music.
Then I arrived on a red line platform backed up on both ends with no train promised for another seven minutes. All that love was gone in an instant. Even faster than an instant when I realized I was going to be waiting another seven minutes after that because no equation of physics or area would get me on that first promised train.
This is me and Chicago in the winter. This is how we do when it's eight below. This love that stretches and grows in ways I could not even image, before snapping back like a rubber band leaving me with a stinging thumb and a sour disposition.
There can only be two more months of this right? Eventually the snow has to melt and I have to be able to stop trying to make two scarves happen (it is never going to happen).
Until then, I hope for more trumpets and more trains.