The days are getting longer, the nights warmer, but nature still keeps us guessing.
What perils await?
Honestly, I thought quicksand would prove more detrimental to my life as an adult than the common mosquito, but here we are.
The ground has firmed up under my boots. Finally. The early spring sponge has been swished and swallowed by the roots of the fast-growing meadow grasses. I don't have to worry about losing a shoe to the bog.
The dogs in my pack bound through the new growth, disturbing songbirds as they rush past, using the same effort they would have to plow through the snow and the wet.
If there is a swath of swamp remaining, they will find it and come back to me reeking of dung and detritus.
Everything in our path, including the path itself, seems lush and verdant. The colors are explosive.
The pond is cool and inviting. Of course, the dogs will swim.
Emerging insects don’t buzz me as much as they collide with my sunglasses. Bounce off my face and into my hair. Down my neck.
I hate them.
The breeze takes the lightest ones away. My guard is up, though. My shoulders tense. Every itch I sense makes me feel flea-bitten. Every freckle could be a tick.
I meant to bring insect repellant. I never remember it.
This is not my season.
The sun is warm until it slips behind clouds that conceal a torrent.
In an instant, my clothes are too warm and then not warm enough.
The heat in the air is already hinting at an oppressive summer.
I am afraid to dig out the garments that would suit this emerging weather.
The big question of course being: Will the things I tucked away to hibernate still fit?
On humans, winter doesn’t have the same slimming effect it has on bears. We widen into new soft and flabby skins.
A part of me wonders why I save these clothes I shuffle semi-annually from bed to bureau. Week in, week out, I wear the same four things: Something old, Something new, Something borrowed Something blue ...
Even if I am spared the expense of an entire wardrobe replacement for size, I will spend similar capital trying to mitigate the shock of my winter faded flesh.
I will try a few lotions and tinctures before giving up and buying a new pair of drugstore sunglasses to protect myself from the milky white glare of my skin reflecting back at me in the mirror.
Not that there won’t be pleasant surprises in the totes that have grown dusty under my bed. I am nothing if not sentimental.
For example, last year I’d forgotten about those coffee-colored yoga pants I’d practically lived in the summer before. I’ve lost track of how many years I’ve had them. Ten years at least. Somewhere between Kid Number One and Kid Number Two. They never wrinkle, stain or fade.
In them, I can salute the sun in the morning and kick sand at the beach as the sun sets.
I smile at the irony. There’s no way those fibers are natural.
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