There's snow on the ground, not the wet slurry I'm familiar with but the hard-packed, frozen-over product of Chicagoan snow plows. It sticks fast to street corners with the black tarry chroma of asphalt. The late winter showers invite me to slip.
She guides me along Lakeview sidewalks. We step around puddles and tiptoe through snow. There's the sensation of some leftover chill that tells us how the worst of winter is over. She describes snowfall so dry that you can brush it from your coat like sand.
