Calendar, calendar, calendar. Spring? Come on.
No green in the treetops, just grackles. I check every morning, right after I locate my glasses. Sure, a daffodil or two has done its thing around town. The butcher said that a customer had opened her pool on St. Patrick’s Day last year. That would be fine by me.
We found signs in the back yard today, despite the chill. The daughter can translate anything into Spring, and incite celebration. We don’t have a daffodil here, but we have the tiniest blue and white flowers in the lawn. We have clumps of grassy leaves, winter squill maybe, that deserved to be photographed. Of course, the moss that grows bristly hairs had to be deeply inspected and documented. Her beaming smile, over these tiny tiny discoveries, was Spring to me. She had hoped that a handful of maple-leaf buds was really a handful of bugs, brown and scaly. Sorry, baby. We kept them anyway.
Tomorrow, if I am very lucky, the sun will wake me again before the alarm. This bed and this window conspire to improve my wellbeing until the days really do turn into a new season. Light blasts through that tall, bare window on cloudless mornings. Today, all sun. No clouds for the first time in a long time.
Maybe this is the lifting of the fog. Maybe unexpected waves of melancholy will ebb away on the sunbeams. Maybe those daughter smiles are sunbeamy enough…
For the chance to see morning before I open my eyes, I risk sleeping with a bare window. The neighbors’ views are blocked all around, but a determined peeper could get an eyeful in the night.
Totally worth that risk.