Waiting for Spring

I walk amidst the flipflops that have been strewn on the floor of the mudroom in an attempt to locate my heavy winter muck boots, and I feel a pang of longing in my heart.  The summer-like weather of the weekend, filled with sunshine and warm wind, seems so long ago. Merely three days has passed since the day I cleared the crumbling brown leaves from the garden beds, and the lilies burst forth from the earth.  Today, I reach once again for my trusty insulated Carhartts.  I love them, don’t get me wrong, but like Christmas decorations and sweaters and my favorite black fuzzy boots, there comes a time when I am ready to pack it all up and say goodbye until the fall.

I am also ready to say goodbye to the snow and the sub-30 temperatures because those glorious mornings of skiing are now in the past.  As I open the mudroom door the 24-degree wind slaps me as if I was being punished for enjoying spring 72 hours ago.  Stepping out onto the white lawn, frozen grass crunches beneath my boots. The cold is weighing me down, tugging at my feet, pulling me back into winter.  As I trudge to the barn the sunlight reaches out in long low beams.  The glistening expanse of white, and the frozen breath billowing into the air that once brought child-like joy, now just makes me sigh, and I wonder if we will ever get to summer.