#775: That Day

April 10th, 2017

The penguins toddled a bit. I guess that’s what penguins do on land. They hop and waddle and toddle a bit.

The polar bear just slouched. It slouched back to the colder area of the enclosure; out of sight, out of warm, sunny day.

The lion laid back and let the sun warm its tummy.

It was that day.

Every spring there’s a day you remember why you live here. You remember why you put up with the gray and the traffic, the noise and the gasoline smell.

It’s a warm day, mostly. A sunny day, always. And that’s when you remember the city is beautiful.

It’s the day it all seems worth it again. It’s the day it all seems possible.

Having visitors helps, out of towners being all out of towny so you have a reason to hit up the zoo, wander among the throng also stretching the winter away. Having visitors makes it reasonable to do all the things you really want to do but are too unbearably local to spend time on.

It seems to make sense to track down penguins when others are near. It seems to make sense to hunt out the sun and lake breezes.

It’s raining as I write this, or at least threatening to in a way so lifelike as to be mistaken for the real thing. It’s windy and annoying and I just want to sleep and wait for more days like yesterday.

Because I know they’re coming. Because I had that day.

The zoo in autumn

The zoo in winter

Remember that one-armed gibbon they used to have? He’s fine

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You are currently reading #775: That Day by Paul Dailing at 1,001 Chicago Afternoons.

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