I was standing in the parking lot glowing a little from having met some success with this play I was directing. Then I saw the
tree.
I thought, almost said out loud, “
Oh my god.” (well,
I don’t have a god, but, for the sake of argument . . .) “I don’t believe it.
It is already on its way. The spring.” I looked at the tree and noticed, with horror, that the
branches were covered with
buds. Buds! I thought that this
winter would last forever. That it might put me to sleep. But OH NO! no chance of that! Spring is hobbling in and soon everything will be bursting with life. When it comes I’ll just stare at it all in disbelief:
the tulips, the bare legs and arms, the grass, the skin. Please! Give me
snow and
icy blue-black nights, give me
slender bare trees, like bones, not spring! Anything but that! This is
torture.
I guess it’s an odd way to look at it. Unhealthy. Who said that “
April is the cruelest month” ? I never understood that phrase, but now, now it makes too much sense. I’ve grown so old so quickly. When the spring comes I won’t awaken with the the
daffodils, I won’t come pushing out of the snow like a
crocuses. I’ll have to admit that I am past the stage of growing. Growing
older already.
Withering? Well, that’s a bit harsh. I’m only 21. 21 winters and only now I’m learning. This is the first year that I have not welcomed spring. When winter started I thought I would. But I learned to love the
cold and I can’t go back. Take me to one of the poles of the earth! Then I’d have nothing to complain about anymore.
What a poor life. Like
watery soup.