It was 16 degrees out on Friday.
Heidi and I strolled down Madison, passing the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house, where privileged Daddy’s Girls were assembled on the steps and in the front yard. Some poked away on their MacBooks, while others, holding rakes like the entirely foreign objects they were, attempted yard work. They released a collective sigh when they saw my little Daschund march by, her tail wagging.
In front of the ROM, we stopped for our first Polish sausage of the season. On my third bite, I noticed Margaret Atwood walking down the street. She’s small, and on Friday she was wearing thick-soled orthopedic shoes, which made her look quite vulnerable. I wanted to wave, and was desperately trying to make eye contact with her, but it was no use. She seemed unaware of the world around her, of all the warmth and optimism that filled it on this, the first day of spring. She paused briefly to tie-up her shoelace, but then continued along, missing out on Heidi snatching the sausage from my hand, presumably seeing only the things that were invisible to the rest of us.