Spring.
It’s that time of year when everything seems to be in transition, from the weather to the foliage, to the garden, to the teenagers, to longer days, to … everything.
It’s the time of year when I wake up not knowing whether to dress my youngest son as the abominable snowman or Richard Simmons doing a Beach Day Special.
Perennial bulbs don’t know whether to stay hidden or peek above the surface, for fear that they will only end up frozen hours later. I admit, this time of year is hard for me in its indecision. Today, I walked to the grocery store in a windbreaker, and ended up sweating a good 10 pounds off. (At least, that’s what I imagined.)
So I took the windbreaker off for a walk with my dog, and ended up huddled over a metal garbage can full of burning refuse, lamenting with my cohorts about how we want to ‘stick it to the man,’ aka Mother Nature.
I was relieved that the remnants of the latest snowstorm melted, but even while I was typing this sentence just now, pollen floated by and I sneezed four times, and my left contact popped out. And then TV commercials for spring fertilizer came on, telling me if I didn’t use their fertilizer for my lawn within a specific time period, I might as well live on the moon.
I have to admit that this is the first spring I haven’t had someone to take care of that. One of the commercials showed a woman holding a green plastic bucket, and banging it with her hand so white pellets fell to her lawn.
I thought, “I can do that.” I don’t know where to start, but I can for sure bang my hand against stuff.
I recently met friends for drinks, and I was proud of the fact that with winter gone, my eyes were no longer dry as sandpaper, and I could finally wear contacts again. Then my one friend asked, “Why is your left eyeball leaking?”
And I was all, “It’s not.”
I spent the rest of the night inappropriately winking at everyone. I did get some numbers. Not all 10 digits to make a real viable phone call, but I came close. Seriously.
So if you’re that tall, brown-headed guy from last night, just know there are only 24 combinations of numbers left until I figure out your real one. Can’t wait to get together! You made it like a scavenger hunt.
Even now, as I look out into my backyard, it’s the same feeling of uncertainty. I can finally see my grass, along with the remnants of relationships past. It’s like a Scrooge story for the spring break crowd. I see a dusty portrait one ex painted for me. The remains of another ex’s shirt I ceremoniously burnt in my fire pit (OK, that was fun and cathartic). Yard lights one guy helped me hang.
But mostly, springtime is when I remember my amazing dad. He was born in summer, he married my mom in March and he left us in April. Seven years ago, to be exact. Cancer.
Soon, the neighbor’s lilacs will creep their way through my fence (I know, because I will steal them, as I have for many years), and I will remember their scent and associate it with the moment my father collapsed in my arms and died. And, again, spring, and all of its dichotomies, won’t make sense.
My dad was the best person I’ve ever known, and I still don’t understand why he was taken so soon.
And yet I have known several springs without him. So, bring it, weather, with all of your paradoxes. Come at me, contact lenses. Send me your worst breakups, your biggest surprise storms. I’ll gather the lilacs. Legally, and illegally. I’m ready.
I have spent the last year mourning relationships gone.
I’m ready for spring.
