dear spring
a letter from a cold man
The first summer I ever spent in San Francisco, I was a parrot, constantly repeating that Mark Twain quote, “The coldest winter I ever experienced was a summer in San Francisco.” I had moved from Georgia to the city by the bay in June, so the overcast 60-degree days felt polar, especially when the ocean breezes would cut through my layers. I took every opportunity to complain about the weather, and to quote Twain to appear like a smart and worldly 22-year-old (if such a thing exists).
Now, in New York, at my advanced age of 28, I wonder if I’ve experienced anything colder than the frigid April I’m experiencing, this shoddy facsimile of Spring. I’m defenseless this time, with no warm literary quote to wrap around me against the confusing weather of this season. I walk around my neighborhood, wearing three layers and a beanie, mope, and find myself speaking to a season:
Where are you, Spring? The winter was long and arduous, filled with glacial temperatures and an abundance of snow. With each successive snowstorm, with each day of donning thermals beneath my clothes, with each 4:39PM sunset, my morale was buoyed by the promise of your warmth. You play coy, offering glimpses of your splendor, only to retreat in favor of the frigid winds.
In these cold days without the real you, the world appears different. Things that would be beautiful in the warmth gain a solemn quality. A blooming flower turns into a question of impermanence, a handsome street cat triggers concern for its body temperature, an ice cream truck suggests the horrors of having both your hands and brain freeze.
I long for your flower-lined streets, balmy weather, occasional rain showers. I imagine the joy of pleasant evenings, walking unencumbered by jackets or coats or sweaters. Think about how the streets of New York transform in the warmth — smiles and laughter abound, the sidewalks grow crowded with barbecues and dance parties, we all melt into one mess of joy. I bob my head to the “boom-ch-boom-chick” beat from a speaker on the corner, everyone feels like a friend — you know what I’m talking about.
Spring, I’m desperate. I wouldn’t even mind the debilitating layers of pollen that trigger my allergies. I can take multiple showers a day. I can use the eye drops and the allergy medication. I can do anything to bring an end to these false Springs. It’s late April, and we are calling sunny 55 degree days “nice” beneath multiple layers when we should be frolicking in t-shirts and shorts. It’s late April, and the icy wind makes my eyes water, tears for my missing season.
I know you’re there. I see signs of you in the people. In the moments of warmth, I see the smiles on the faces that scowl on colder days, levity in the quotidian. The cashier at the grocery store spends a moment admiring the word “jumbo.” She says it slowly: “juuuuum-bow,” and we agree that the inventor of the word really nailed it. Later, I tell my friends about the interaction, and we relish the blueberries and the word that decorates their size.
This is what you do to me, to us, Spring. You make it easier to remember beauty, levity, wonder. I see your flowers popping up on some street corners, small patches along the road. For me? You shouldn’t have. But I could use a whole lot more. You know how I love it when the city is filled with colors, Spring, when people have reasons to stop and smell them, when time becomes a little looser and shoulders more relaxed.
I’ll wait for you, for the perfect day that we will have. A walk through Prospect Park with coffee, watching all of the frolicking doodles; a sandwich by the water, admiring the skyline glowing in the sun; lively crowds stumbling through the late night streets. A city fully alive again.
💧 Drops of the Week 💧
PLAYLIST - New Order Essentials - one of the best bands of the 80s!
POEM - “Rhapsody” by Frank O’Hara - a sight of Manahatta in the towering needle / multi-faceted insight of the fly in the stringless labyrinth