Yesterday I walked through the Boston Common. Even the dirty city air carries the molecular scent of snow melting into thawed soil. It felt wonderful to have warm winds ruining my hairstyle and spraying the remnants of winter’s road grit into my face. Spring has happened, drastic and ubiquitous, like we all knew it would.
The birds chirp with urgency, as impatient for the weather to catch up to the calendar as the office workers who thicken the sidewalks with their chins raised, necks exposed, and limbs swinging in the freedom of thin fabric. Construction workers loiter, sipping beverage cups and scanning for glimpses of spring leg. Homeless people gather in doorways, relaxed and laughing. Three chubby older women jaywalking across the street break into a trot, hooting and giddy enough that I can conjure them as breathless and fertile young girls.
And me, well, I’ll turn 30 years old this spring: 30 years of greeting the most fleeting of seasons with an innocent eagerness. Charles Dickens said change begets change, and I sniff the air and wish my life will change too. As calmly as the wind changes from cold to warm, as effortlessly as we shuck out of our coats and gloves, as uncomplicated as the advent of spring.
