Spring must be near. Today I smelled track season. As I walked along the sidewalk, my mouth got dry and my lungs were filled with something I can’t even name. Outside the windows in my kitchen, icicles are surrendering to the fragrant sunshine.
I grew up on the backside of the high school in my town and you could measure each season by the sounds through the trees. In the fall it was the loudspeakers announcing the football games on Friday nights. In the winter there were sudden bursts of cheers as fans left the basketball games in the clear, frigid dark. And in the spring, it was the crack of baseball bats as well as the scores of children and teenagers outside getting a breath of fresh, clean air---free from curtains of white.
It is March in Moscow. Though it is only 24 degrees Fahrenheit and there are still feet of snow in the fields, I know Spring is coming. The trees across the lake have taken on a dark, almost midnight green instead of their native frosty silver which has adorned them since November. I’ve begun ordering bicycle tubes, rain boots, and water bottles so we can have outdoor adventures in this new land.
This will be the first time in seven years that my husband doesn’t coach baseball at our Alma Mater. I’ll admit, I’m sad about it, but it will also be the first time he has enjoyed the unfolding of this season with us as well. I’m not quite ready to get out my galoshes, but I know there will come a day when puddles enough will be inviting me to step in---the water’s fine.
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