by Libby O'Neill
Today Chicago fizzed and popped. Ice melted and puddles glistened; a thaw from our gray sameness. People let their pale arms out from under thick sweaters and laughed at bad jokes that somehow seemed funnier in the sun. I worry during days like this. I am captivated by the luster, and wonder how I will convince myself to nest in the library's warmth once the city experiences this vividness with some regularity. Maybe it is often miserable here for a reason.
Libby O'Neill, a Chicago native, studies law, procrastinates, studies more, runs in place, misses the New York literary world, and embraces the Midwest's schizophrenic weather (most of the time).