If ever there was a time for things to be looking up, spring is it.
Of course, with climate change, it could just as easily snow tomorrow. Bulbs are sending their shoots up, like worried mothers shoving their kindergarteners. Joggers are beginning to emerge, pasty and flabby and shivering. I’ve restarted my bicycle commute across Manhattan, twenty-six miles a day. I still have to wear gloves, but as usual my biggest worry is that people in New York City apparently never learn to drive. Or walk.
Prospects bloom, too, and romance, and kind thoughts for others. How far back does this tendency go, this tendency to protect your hoard in winter and then let the sunshine drag it out of you a few months later? Your money, your time, your heart. Your sense of well-being, of security, of hope.
Things can die in spring, but you hope they die happy. And the other shoe can surely drop when you least expect it. Sometimes I get so used to that other shoe dropping on me that I just feel grateful if it hasn’t recently stepped in shit.