The green on the trees is deceiving. How can I possibly be lead to believe that the date on the calendar is correct? High above me hangs the sun that has, slowly but surely, melted away the last lingering mounds of never ending snow. Below me, the matted down grass squishes with every step and brown water oozes up to try and make its way into my shoe. Failing step after step, but constantly trying, the water seems as close to achieving its goal as I am to believing that summer is around the corner. Unfortunately, this idea fades away into my subconscious as another gust of chilling air assaults my face.

Shoving each headphone deep into my ears to drown out the whipping wind, I quickly shove my hands back into my pockets. Next week, I think to myself, next week it will be warm. Just another lie I continue to tell myself hoping that, even just for one day, the weatherman will be wrong about the cold. Living near Chicago, I’m used to temperatures around zero degrees lasting for a week or two during the winter, but not low thirties in late March. The preschool idiom of “In like a lion, out like a lamb” comes into my mind, reminding me how different this month of St. Patrick’s Day has been from previous years. Last year the lamb went out with weather forecasts in the seventies, but clearly the Jet-stream wasn't concerned with repeating that generosity this year.

Without thinking I quickly sidestep another puddle and try to figure out if I can see my breath. Not wanting to take my hands out of my pockets to check the temperature on my phone I have started to rely on this method to guess how cold it is around me. I’m sure it’s not very accurate, but it suits my needs. Today no breath is visible; therefore I decide that it’s in the mid-thirties without the wind-chill that’s seeping into my bones. I can hear my mom’s voice ringing in my head, telling me over and over that I should have worn a jacket. Logically, no jackets should be needed in the suburbs of Chicago after late February. Another saying from my childhood emerges from the back of my mind where I had just put my idea about summer being around the corner. Thinking to myself, I wonder how well the theory “April showers bring May flowers” will work with sleet.

The sun provides some warmth on my back, but that is quickly put to an end by the clouds that have other plans. This is just one more deception in a month that’s supposed to signal the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Similar to a lottery player that assumes he will eventually hit it big, I’m forced to lean on the fact that sooner or later summer has to make its way to Illinois.