Sprinters

I love when Spring refuses to take off its winter coat.

Its chill lingering in the air, making me take quick, half steps. The kind of stride that makes you feel like you aren't on secure ground.

It makes the heart race.

I call this meeting of seasons Sprinter.

I’m weird like that.

I love seeing my breath turn into clouds. And I’m not too old for snow angels.

I don’t even mind the soggy boots sloughing off the last of the heavy-weight snow in my entryway if it means the first season could last just a tick longer. It dries without a fuss.

Winter has the weather that best suits my clothes. Hats, gloves, and scarves. Sweaters, coats, and boots; Layers that hide shapes or lack thereof.

I will miss trekking over the frozen landscape on snowshoes truth-be-told. Laughing as the dogs trail behind me in a single file line, chest deep.

With cleats gripping into the drifts, I can go anywhere. I can lengthen my stride and feel secure on the vertical climbs. I don't mind the effort, nor do the dogs.

The world is fresh and new after a snowfall. The air seems clear.

Later, with the wind blowing against the house and blankets bundling us cozy and snug, all will sleep soundly.

I will miss the warmth of glowing logs breaking into tufts of tiny fireworks in my living room.

It won’t last much longer.

Any day now Spring’s wispy garments of chintz will reveal themselves from under Winter’s woolen exterior.

Slight tendrils of green will slither up through the ground as the snow melt causes the earth to turn into a kind of soup.

I’ll bear it with gritted teeth mimicking a smile, though the mess their shoes track in will probably stain the rug.

My kids.

They can’t wait until they don’t need the coats they haven’t worn anyway since a gopher in Pennsylvania predicted six more weeks of winter.

At least they are smart enough to keep their lips closed over their chattering teeth as we wait for the school bus at the crack of dawn.

These kids. They are enjoying a different kind of sprint; the kind that speeds the biological clock.

What? Did you think this life cycling timepiece only compelled women of a certain age toward procreation?

Maybe you're right. Time, I thought, left no impression on me before children.

My skin was unlined. My hair curled at my shoulders without a trace of silver. There was nothing but time.

I had no idea that time was like a turntable with adjustable speeds:

33 … 45 … 78 …

Sprinters, the lot of us.

If you’ve blinked, the saying goes, you might have missed it. Like all parents, cliché has proven beyond doubt that our children were born just yesterday. We thought time had slowed during the sleepless, hall-walking nights of those early years.

But once we've closed our eyes and slept effortlessly through the night, we open them to find ourselves, perhaps, on the other side of a conference table in a guidance counselor’s office, checking off boxes for a high school schedule, which is set to begin before we see another winter's return.