last labor day weekend, the construction crew moved in.
and this seemed appropriate at the time. that my street should be gutted. that i should dwell amidst an inescapable cacophony of steal grinding concrete, punctuated by random detonations of earth that cast upon my home life a soundtrack eerily reminiscent of oliver stone's platoon.
they say chicago has two seasons. winter and construction.
because i am excessively literary and entirely too ready to discern poetic irony in everything, i found this past season of construction an all too apt metaphor.
the potholes. the upended sewer. the street six inches lower than the sidewalk so a twisted ankle seemed a daily inevitability. why, that was my life!
and in all that has happened my first thought has always echoed the gasp of everyone who has offered me a ride home in the past four months, when their right front tire hits that first 2' pothole after turning onto arlington.
"oh shit. that was unexpected."
but things are getting better. winter has come.
and the men who have unfailingly complimented my boots every day for the last 102 patched up my street and packed up their stuff and then they went away.
and at last there was quiet. absolute perfect quiet. and a stillness i had not known in months. a stillness i had almost forgotten i could appreciate.
it endured exactly three days.
yesterday the construction crew came back. my street, it is in pieces. and the stillness, it is gone.