I had a dream that spring arrived overnight, bringing with it clusters of flowers pushing up from their beds and warmth spreading across the crown of my head.
Then I woke up Monday morning to that, shed an icy little tear and shoved my growing girth into some maternity pants. The day must go on.
It’s gotten old, all this cold and dampness, the slush and mess, but I know we’re approaching the bend in the road. It’s almost over. And just a hint of spring can get me through some ugly days.
Fall has historically been my most favorite of all seasons, but something about spring — the melting snow; the freshness; the warm breezes hinting at something more — has really captured my winter-battered heart.
Spencer and I met in March on the first warm day of the season; later this month, we’ll celebrate five years together. We’d arranged our first date through OkCupid — the modern way, you know — and wanted to meet somewhere outside, taking in the first delightful peeks of the summer to come.
We wound up sharing a wrought-iron table at Panera. Though it wasn’t quite warm enough to sit comfortably outdoors, especially with the wind, we were determined. Persistent. And as we started talking, I stopped thinking about the goosebumps on my arms. I’ll never forget sipping a smoothie while this funny, cute guy pushed curls from his eyes in that ridiculous breeze.
Maybe that’s when spring transformed for me: that new sense of change, of excitement; this sudden belief that anything was possible. I fell in love in the spring. After a long stretch of winter, Spencer marched in like sunshine itself.
And we’re almost there again. Almost. Soon the days will grow longer, cherry blossoms will burst open, the salt and brine will slip away from our cars.
Life will bloom again. And in three months, we’ll welcome a new life ourselves.
Bring on the sunshine.