It can be so easy to let a good 60-degree day make it all seem worth it. All it takes, for me, is weather warm enough for shorts and loose hair. And as the colder days roll wildly into Spring, that heartache that has plagued humanity since November can finally take its course. Spring, with its weird mix of humid days that cool off suddenly as the sun falls, an occasional rainstorm, and the undeniable feeling that if one can just make it to Summer it’s all going to be okay. The people live for Summer—that tropical heat that leaves skin balmy and thoughts brash, an invincibility that knows no bounds. All the girls are just waiting for Spring, for that first sign. All the girls are waiting for a Happy Hour Summer. I have Marlowe Granados to thank for that.
The girls want warm air that seeps in through faulty windows while the laundry is folded. They want the freckles to return, for the leaves to return, and for the pale filter that shadows everything to leave. They want to sit in the sun and catch up with all she left us with. And I know it because once the weather lightens up the people crowd every empty space of the green grass, splayed out on blankets, taking all they can get. All I can imagine is the blue waters, the trees that dapple light onto the ground in little clusters and bursts, and the people crowding the outside patios of every restaurant. All I can imagine is the vivid colors, the smells, the sounds, and the crosshairs of love that spiral into nothing as the Summer nights are washed away again once fall returns, bringing us back to our senses, and taming us. I am reminded of the feeling of skin so warm it begs for the shade, tan lines forming like the little desire paths over grassy plains, and the tangy mixture of sweat and SPF.
February was a pull, forward or backward, I’m not sure, but god it is good to know that turmoil will soon end. I’ve spent these last weeks between arms, between nights with drinks in hand, between books and places and streets I have yet to learn the names of. A Winter of dilution has me anxiously waiting for the solidity of Spring. And while one can not place all their bets on a little sun there is always some confirmation that one can always do with a tan. Or a warm night. I tend to get a little tired of hauling jackets to nights out, and whether that seems precocious or premature I’ve reached a point of spite against this cold. I’m longing for the easy nights, followed by mornings of writing and reading, and mid-days that pass seamlessly into the evening where the lights dim to give the sunset the spotlight, red and rhythmic. I suppose what I hope to achieve here is to say—there’s always Spring and Summer if nothing else.
In recent quick writings (that don’t see the light of UVUC) there is a consistent yearning. Little hearts that never beat on lined paper, smudged by hasty note-taking, a mindless pastime that stems from a dream that waits to be fulfilled. While it hurts to admit, I can accept a little waiting for now. My previous expectations have begun to feel drained of all their color—all I can expect now is to enjoy it all the best I can. I try my best not to be swept under the rug of it all, not when there is still so much to look forward to now. I have come to an understanding with that human feeling of wanting more. I am acquainted well with it, as someone who is always trying to prove herself. But what is there to prove to anyone on a hot Summer night? Not a thing. Only that you can swim, and that you know the lyrics.
One can always chase the sun that rules over April and May. Decidedly, Spring comes, and then soon enough it leaves you. But this reality means nothing on the chilly mornings. People say it is bad to hope and wish, that it is bad to wait for more. But life is always been a bit of a waiting game, and what better thing is there to wait for in a time so supple as this? It is the time to take photos you will show to folks who don’t exist yet. Clean the dust from the camera lens, it’s almost Spring.