The older I get, aka the more Chicago winters I experience, the more I identify with the lion, the witch and the wardrobe, where the villain keeps Narnia in endless winter and never Christmas. There is something about the trudge of January and February, and the false promise of March, that keeps me on the edge of my seat watching to see when the lake will finally melt, when the flowers will start to bloom and I can finally put away my coat. Week by week we’re getting there. Last week, I walked along the lakefront and the ice had begun to melt in chunks. The remaining pieces clinked together like musical breaking glass. I put away my down coat and go around bravely without a hat or scarf. Soon, spring will be here and I will once again be reminded of how glad I am that, once again, the seasons change.