fickle

Spring is a fickle season. It has memory loss. The mornings are tipped with cold air after an almost wintry night. Some days are warm and the buds on the trees begin to show. Some days are cool, almost cold. These are the days that spring forgets it’s job and slinks slightly back to winter. These are the fickle days.

I’ve had the windows full open in every room for three days. I’ve had to wear long sleeves, sweatpants, and sleep under my heaviest down comforter but I refuse to shut the windows until Spring decides it wants to be hot, to show it’s true Virginia colors.

Every year, this time, I think that spring is glorious, that it is my favorite season. It’s not. It’s the change I’m craving, loving. I want the coldness to leave, but I want the coolness to stay. I hate summer and spring signals that sweltering heat is around the corner, that sweating is inevitable. So the beginning of spring takes me outside to dinners under the sky and wind blowing through my home. And when it warms up, I’ll hold my breath ‘til fall comes and cools Virginia down, bringing the leaves with it.