The Spring, The Snow

It has been two months since I last wrote and one would assume a change in season has arrived. But all that has arrived is April, that month so synonymous with spring yet so unpredictable. In the Midwest, in the Northeast, in the Northwest, a snowbell blooming, a snowstorm descending. This year where the months mean nothing. Several days ago it was the mid 70’s, today the mid 20’s and snowing. The other night, driving home, I nearly slid into winter, into sirens, into the unexpectedness of return. How could none of us expect it? Not even snow but ice. And no one was ready. Not the roads nor the brakes, nor the SUV in front of me who danced right to left to right until the guardrail decided to join in.

It is April and the same outside as January. The same inside. How was it that I kept driving on, past the police lights, the smashed in windshields. How is it that I’m exactly where I was. Or how is it that I’m in love. I don’t know how else to survive, perhaps, the temperature as I write 22 degrees outside, a light snow falling, a future so blank it’s difficult, really, to wake up in the mornings. Except. She exists. And I keep waking up, and I know even the weather is unsure of what will come next. Winter will end when it’s ready. The flowers who had already bloomed, who are hanging, heads down, at the edge of the house, will return. She will be here when she's ready, and I will walk outside and hear each snowflake as it melts, each flower as it blooms. Her pulse, quickening.