Willow
It is 11:13 p.m. on a Thursday night in November. A few nights ago, the clouds painted the ground in small, abundant pearls. Ice covers the sidewalk where I walk. The mesmerizing night sky is decorated with tiny, glittering jewels that cascade across its infinity. I am bewildered by my surroundings: these small, glimmering diamonds accent the pool of darkness, and then the main performers of the night step onto center stage and the show begins.
My performers, already lined up along the sidewalk, encapsulate me with their light. I stand still and alone, surrounded by them, in such awe that time blends and bends like a tale told by light itself. Their show encapsulates me completely, I admire and stare at these marvelous performers. One by one they begin to whisper a code; they exchange messages in front of a spectator who craves to understand the meaning of every action. Each performer stands ten feet fall. Their masks are identical and transparent, showing the intricacies of the glass bulb that hides behind it, each performers’ true beauty.
These performers, the street lamps, take me to a world that consists of light and glass, a very fragile reality. The air there filled with white poppies and the smell of sandalwood. I am wearing a white, long dress, and my hands are no longer dry, but instead are decorated with jewels from thin rings. My pale skin is painted olive from the beaming light and my cheeks are blushed. The street lamps transform into willow trees flowing gracefully and endlessly. I start walking past them, and I am illuminated by their warm light.
It seems as if the street lamps are walking around me and I am caught in a trance. Chicago has never looked so beautiful. I fade away from the city noise and fall into a reverie, a dream of a surreal reality. The historical buildings and cracked sidewalks, which are only visible because of the street lamps, guide me further and further away from the everyday world. Looking forward, I see the lights from the tops of skyscrapers beam through the fog and draw me closer, reds and whites flashing perpetually in this cold, November night shift into the pigment of my cheeks. I am unraveled, exposed in a long, white dress, looking up at the willow trees extending ahead of me into the night. They grab me, holding me so tightly that I no longer weep about modern tragedies or mourn the truth that lurks in the sunlight. The skin that showcases all of my bones is no longer visible in willow shade. The dress frames my ribs and details my protruding collarbones; yet in the light of the willow trees, I abandon this self-inflicted disease. I am not hungry anymore: I am satisfied, and the pain in the pit of my stomach disappears. The willows kiss my arrow-like elbows and butterfly-like vertebrae. The light from the willows laces around me, huddling with me like the fog encasing the red and white lights from the skyscrapers. Encompassing me, warming me so the ice that follows my bare body has melted. I am radiating in the love from the lights.