Age – Snippets of SnapDragon

Oh, Winter. I do love you.

. . .

There’s something about the last gasp of winter that I absolutely adore.

Because even though it’s technically springtime–what with the equinox being over and all–we northeastern folks know that pretty much doesn’t mean shit. And while there are usually a handful of truly glorious, 70-degree days scattered throughout March, there’s always one last stretch of take-your-breath-away cold.

And even though I kind of hate it, I actually kind of love it.

It’s refreshing. It’s mysterious.

And it makes me nostalgic for the things that have been.

. . .

It’s no secret that I’m an old soul. In fact, I might just be the definition of one. I like to be in: in the house, in the car, in a piping-hot shower. I don’t need much to be happy, and this in itself makes me happy.

My college days were no different. I had a handful of friends, and kept them close. We passed the weekends watching movies on VHS tapes. We’d then talk each other into watching just one more, with the assurance that we eventually would get those papers written. And we did.

We worked our part-time jobs. We scheduled our classes for the fall. We dyed our hair and dreamed of The Great Beyond.

There was so much beauty in these moments: in the vulnerable act of being young.

I want to kiss my college self. I want to brush her hair behind her ear and tell her that she’s lovely. I want to tell her that everything–the things that matter, anyway–will be okay.

. . .

So now, when I feel these last days of winter, I smile. I pull my graying hair into an uncool topknot and slip out to Giant for baby formula and kitty litter.

I look at the naked trees, and wonder at all they’ve seen.

I crank Tori Amos and sing along in my very best soprano, the delicious harmony giving me pause.

I come back home, back inside, and the warmth somehow makes me shiver at the cold I’ve just endured.

For soon the trees will blossom, our open windows ushering in a gentle breeze. I’ll wander out in a tank top and sandals, wondering where time has gone.

. . .

How simple life can be.

. . .