And I stood there looking out my bedroom window this morning,watching the sunset, soft cotton candy pinks and blues, hues indicative of the arrival of springtime, and I realized that right now in my city, the atmosphere of spring is everywhere, melting and engulfing, lifting the mood that is so heavily weighed down by the deepest, darkest winters for such a long, long, long time. There is a pulse when weather brightens, temperatures rise, days drag on longer than they were when snow thickly, coarsely blanketed everything. You can feel its gentle, warming, thriving throb. Winter is meeting its demise, and I love it.
It’s March. March 2010.
All the Marches I’ve faced in the past few years have made me feel something important or deep and meaningful, have forced me to experience great gains and darker than that, great losses. This weather, this pulse I’m feeling, the pulse that everyone is feeling right now in the city, reminds me of that. Specifically, how much I miss certain people and certain times and certain feelings that I associate with the magic of the awakening spring. This kind of weather, this climate, the crunching of snow under sneaker-clad feet, my cold toes in the morning, the absorbing sun in the last couple of hours in the afternoon, reminds me of how much I insanely miss you and your smile and your voice and your face and that glint in your eyes. I wish you were here so I could share my joy of spring, of achievements, of good books and movies and food and coffee or tea, with you. I wish you were here so often, that I forget you are not, until it hits me suddenly and my stomach drops and I remember once again.
I could just discard this thought and shelf it away somewhere so that no one will read it, know what I’m referring to and judge me for being and acting and thinking these long-ago thoughts that are so dead – too dead. And yet, I’m not ashamed anymore. I was. But… now, I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Especially you, if you’re there.