spring

I have always loved spring. Found some solace in the liminal space between the dreary rain of Vancouver winter and the smoke that drifts from what has become an annual tradition of forest fires in the Okanogan every summer. When the sky shifts to a warmer gray and the monotone dress code East Van residents unconditionally abide by is temporarily traded out for jean jackets and tote bags, only to be replaced by a collective drowsiness and heat.

Spring is when the family of woodpeckers which have stubbornly been living rent-free in the attic of my Mom’s house finally moves on to find a new home. Maybe there they won’t be berated with eviction notices and can chatter as much as they want free of consequence. Maybe they will find a tree.  

Transitional seasons in general feel poetic, Fall is melodramatic. The muggy air doesn’t release its grip easily and September brings a certain dread for the coming year. Spring isn’t melodramatic though, it’s light. Airy. Filled with dewdrops and Crocuses. It brings a feeling difficult to articulate and attempts to seem useless. Life is too short to spend time logically justifying emotions. Fall reminds us that precise dates and years are arbitrary; in the Hebrew calendar it’s 5783 (at least Rosh Hashanah food is good). Spring is contrary to the existential dread of winter, at least for now, it is consistent.  

Every March I watch as the snowdrops poke their delicate heads out of the soil, finally conscious after months of hibernation. April comes and I realize my birthday is on the first night of Passover. Maybe I'll make a matzah cake. May brings the only month of consistently clear skies. Then June arrives, dispelling any lingering whispers of spring, leaving only a wake of wilted cherry blossoms and a cluster of abnormally clean suburban homes.