One day left in February and four days until spring break--good thing, too, since it's that exact time of the year when even a sideways glance from a puddle of snush, or a weather forecast of yet more snow, will bring me to tears.
March is midterms and wool socks, spring clothes taunting you in the stores. It's the buttons popping off your winter coat. It's the gray draped over the sky, from sun up to sun set. It's waking up and straining to hear bird calls. It's finding broken snow scrapers in the middle of the street. It's daffodils on the mantel--forced cheer. It's running searches for flights to cities with the airport codes ATL and JAX, and it's nothing sounds good for dinner except bourbon and two ice cubes.
It's the time of the year that I miss the white house on Highland Avenue. It's me wearing a limerick champion t-shirt for good luck and good vibes. It's when a road trip to anyplace not here sounds good. It's listening to this song over and over and over again.
It's considering patio furniture. It's making plans to spend the first truly warm night of the year out back sitting in the grass with a lantern and a case of cheap beer. It's reading memoirs of Africa because they are not the northern United States. It's this poem. It's Googling southeastern cities and thinking of Where We'll Go Next. It's looking in the mirror and so sick of what looks back.
Tomorrow night I'm going to the conservatory for the annual spring butterfly release. I hope the butterflies make me feel better. I hope their little wings can carry the weight of everything I want right now: late sunset, a warm breeze, a whole fucking case and all the friends I used to drink it with.
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