I know I’m ready for spring when I strip our bed of its flannel sheets. Not just to wash and replace, but to tuck away in the dark recesses of the linen/BB gun closet until the temperature drops next fall. I’ve been waking up in the tiny hours with a sharp craving for smooth, cool sleeping surfaces. And fresh mozzarella cheese. Either it’s time for spring to arrive or I’ve got pneumonia. That happened once. I thought I was just hot all the time because it was April and our bed was still in winter mode, but it turned out I had a fever. For three weeks. I’m pretty sure, though, that this year it’s a seasonal thing.
What I love about spring:
the diminished wardrobe
deer prints in the mud
the once again acceptable taste of white wine and gin. Not together.
We’re not quite there, yet, despite the cotton sheets rumpled under me right now. It’s still red I reach for in the evening. Snow pants still clog the living room floor around the heater vent. If I look hard I can spot a snowflake or two weaving its way down from the skies. But it’s coming. Soon.
Play well together in the mud and wind.