Winter was dragging on. More out of defiance than comfort, I’d been outside without my coat. The nights still dipped well below freezing. Dreary clouds came from the east, shading the still-brown grass and smooth-branched trees.
Overnight and into the morning snow fell. Big flakes layered across the ground, mounting to over half a foot – for the third time in ten days. I pulled on my clunky shearling boots and plodded out into my day, bereft of sunshine, pining for summer.
When I got off work the snow was only asserting its memory in patches of well-shaded remnants and dirty piles on parking lot edges. The sunset gleamed on the wet runoff skimming the pavement on my weary drive home.
And then the next morning I woke up. I got out of bed and went upstairs. Blew my nose, suffering the symptoms of my annual spring virus. Washed my hands at the kitchen sink, ignoring the running water while I watched the back yard. It needed watching.
When I hadn’t been watching, even while I slept, the world had transformed. Green struggled through the old year’s lawn growth. Tiny buds swelled on twigs of bushes and trees. Birds were singing!
All sudden and without warning. When a snowstorm had driven back expectation of spring anytime soon, beating me down with the power of winter to persevere past decent dates. Last time I looked, no sign of renewed life. Now, everywhere.
Lisa of Longbourn 