It begins with the light.
The grass still shivers and the only blooms are the brave-hearted snowdrops. But something has changed.
No matter what the calendar says, no matter if there’s a blizzard tomorrow—a corner has been turned. The squirrels know it and so do the doves, the neighbourhood stray and the fly that landed on my arm today as I sat reading on the patio. It’s like hair. One day it’s perfectly fine, like it’s been for weeks or months, and the next [and you will never know how this can happen] it’s changed and it needs a cut and it will not be fine again until you cut it.
Spring arrives like that. Overnight. And suddenly everything is different. Regardless of weather, it will not be winter again until the last month of the year.
We walk to the grocery store to buy some baby food for Jake The Cat who’s a bit plugged up with shedding-his-winter-coat hairballs; my cat book recommends a recipe involving a veggie/meat blend along with melted butter, psyllium husks and water.
It’s about twenty minutes, if that, through a ravine and a park where, amongst all that loveliness, somehow people decide to just drop things and carry on.
Back home again, I bake what could be my favourite thing in the world— today I use (local, frozen from summer) cherries.
And I read inside.
I vacuum downstairs, but not upstairs.
I write a little. Not a lot.
And too soon the sun is on the other side of the house and making those end of day shadows on the guy across the street’s garage door and the wall in the living room and I put chicken wings in the oven and shrimps on the barbie…
— and Peter pours glasses of wine and today’s light will soon be gone but it was here and it was spring light, and before it fades and turns suddenly too cold to sit outside comfortably…
Note: Jake The Cat ate his ‘recipe’ and, later, things cleared up nicely. [In case you were wondering.]