A Raspberry Glow at Huron

Before Waukegan even blinked awake, Clark Street lay under a sky the color of thin lime rind. Street-lamps clicked on, halos mild and even, except for the bulb above Huron. That one slipped from red into an impossible raspberry. Cars waiting there, drivers half alive and coffee starved, tasted fruit on the air and wondered if they had imagined it. Two sparrows on the cross-arm chirped back and forth as if they had painted the bulb themselves.

Pigeons lifted off the market awning, circled once, then lined a wire so their shadows became music staves across the pavement. A boy in grass-stained shorts, late for day camp, stepped into those shadows and felt the day’s invitation. He trotted on, bare knees ready for whatever pavement might teach.

Inside the bakery, the baker decided the first loaf would tune the whole city. She rinsed her hands in scented water, whispered the one-line blessing her grandmother used, and kneaded until the bowl sighed. When the dough slid into the oven, sweet steam climbed the chimney and coaxed a row of clouds to hover as if tied by invisible string.

The steam drifted down an alley where two rabbits nibbled beard-grass that poked through asphalt. They touched their noses to the ground and soon a ring of fresh clover surfaced. A clerk hauling trash paused, mouth open, let the bag rest by the dumpster, and promised himself a garden before summer ended.

At Lawrence, a bus sighed and opened its doors. The driver caught the distant raspberry glow and breathed slower. Empty seats waited for an elderly muralist racing to finish a wall of seagulls, a janitor who practiced salsa with a mop, and a college student recording insect hymns on her phone. The driver lingered at the curb, giving the light more time to shine.

Outside the florist, buckets rolled onto warm concrete. The florist believed colors carried sentences. Today he set tulips beside gladiolus so the block could talk about forgiveness. A woman with shoulders heavy from a week of bad news stopped when violet irises flashed raspberry back at her. She tucked one behind her ear, laughed at her reflection, and headed toward the lake feeling lighter than before.

Under the Blue Line, bolts long rusted found a faint shine. The bakery’s steam mixed with engine oil and graffiti dust. A mechanic on break touched one bolt, felt it quiver like a tiny heart, and decided to call the brother he had ignored for years.

Behind Graceland Cemetery, sunrise set angel statues ablaze with marigold light. Mariano swept sand from stone paths and steered his push-brush so the cinnamon-rich aroma from the bakery drifted among the graves. A crow landed, dropped a soda-can tab at his feet, then lifted away. Mariano tucked the silver ring into his pocket, certain it meant good luck.

By midday, word fluttered along Foster that street-lamps tasted like fruit. An elderly tailor threaded apricot-colored silk into one lapel, then another sleeve. No one objected.

On the pier, Lake Michigan flashed steel-bright. Perch leapt straight into coolers as if they had heard a grandmother wish for supper. Fishermen filleted their luck on benches and handed wrapped portions to anyone willing to smile.

Mail carriers slipped pale envelopes through brass slots. Each flap wore a raspberry heart. Inside, a single instruction waited: Believe, and watch. Some notes stuck to refrigerators. Others vanished behind junk mail. A few nestled inside half-read novels. Wherever they were opened, neighbors later spoke of vanilla drifting through stairwells.

Evening came softly. Lamps returned to their usual amber and green, though now and then a shy raspberry blink greeted late walkers. Rabbits returned to their clover ring, pigeons lined their wire, and the underpass bolts still glowed faintly.

The baker set cooling loaves on the sill, certain tomorrow’s batch would rise higher. Clouds puffed as if agreeing. Her lullaby of cinnamon and fenugreek slipped through an open window where a woman once fell asleep to the television; tonight she listened to the world instead.

Clark Street listened too. Machinery sang in lower keys, unpaid bills waited without scolding, and forgotten recipes migrated from memory to stovetop. That evening, a cab driver at Devon stopped, clapped once for the sinking sun, and drove on smiling. A child tucked the raspberry letter under her pillow and decided to dream in colors before unimagined.

Before dawn, clouds gathered above the bakery for their share of fresh steam. Rabbits drowsed next to clover. On Argyle the stoplight rehearsed its fruit-bright glow for commuters still dreaming. Somewhere in that gentle murmur of engines, two sparrows prepared another whispered wager, confident that belief alone could tint the day ripe enough to taste.