When I lived in Austin, I missed the seasons. When I spend an entire day in January trying to get warm in Omaha, I miss Austin. What’s a girl to do?
I can’t decide if it’s the seasons or the diminishing ratio of a time unit to the whole of life that makes time fly. At least the seasons give us some measure of reference to gauge the occurrence of things, though the memories seem to bleed into others that carry the familiar images, sounds and smells of each. Yet those sensory delights become more rooted in my subconscious each year, offering a glimmer of change that signals nothing is as it must stay.
Already I anticipate the first crocuses and daffodils and tulips popping some color into this dreary landscape. Green grass, giggles on the street and late evening sunsets. When finally we crack a warm smile.
Unfortunately, it is just my learned memory assuming that spring will come regardless of any sign that it will. Just 10 more weeks or so, I suppose.