Spring in Massachusetts is muddy and wet. It’s colder than we want it to be and frustrating. Some springs bring massive floods. Others bring even more snow. Then there are those days the smell like perfection.
You know the ones.
I start a countdown until spring every January first. For some reason, year after year, I always forget how many days until Spring (I think it might be 77) and what day Spring is on. The 20? 21? 22? It’s the 20th. At least this year it is. Does it change? I can’t be bothered to really, truly know.
I just know that I long for it to come, as soon as the clock hits midnight and the kidding brigade begins and people are popping open champagne and throwing up streamers and making noise. I am usually quietly watching television or maybe already asleep. That first kiss of the new year meant nothing to be, maybe because it never exist.
But on January first, what I have to look forward to is Spring.
I love the smell of wet earth, the slight scent of burning wood and leaves. I love watching the earth change from barren and cold to wet, warm and alive. I love the green the flowers. I always want to start a garden. Some years I manage to begin by planting tiny $1 seeds from Target into tiny $1 pots from Target. They grow, and eventually I forget or lose interest or something.
And yet I keep trying. Or keep wanting to try. (Today I bought a tiny bucket from CVS with lavender seeds inside).
(I always forget about the bugs)
It’s almost here. It’s almost here. I can smell it. I can hear the birds starting. I feel the warmth of sun on my cheeks. I ache for sunkissed freckles (I missed that gene) and lemonade. Fresh fresh fresh. Ladybugs, bare feet, showing off tattoos in flip flops, iced coffee, hand holding, bracelet making, daisies, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, flowly skirts, a want to wear white (And yet, that never ends well), hope.
Hope for the flowers.
Spring come faster. I’ll photograph you and you’ll infuse me with honey lavender scented inspiration.