I awoke early this Sunday to the sound of
rustling spring leaves, flapping together like children clapping their hands
for attention, letting me know it was 40 degrees cooler than the day before.
The sudden warmth on Saturday had quickly retreated overnight in the face of
the stubborn east wind coming off the ocean, reminding me, and the impatient
foliage, that it wasn’t summer just yet.
Breathing in through my swollen and
bloodied nose, the cool salty air tickled my newly formed nostrils and the
taste of iron and lilac drip down my throat. I rub my dry eyes
and the feel of the tape on across the bridge of my nose and the sudden pain
remind me that I’m still recovering from the surgery I had a few just a few
days ago.I roll on my side wanting to sleep a little while longer, ignoring the fact that I’ve been in bed for days, and relish that it’s Sunday of Memorial Day weekend and I have no plans to speak of, but my bladder doesn’t care one bit. I stumble to the bathroom, pull down my panties and sit on the toilet in one motion, then look out the window at the newly ensconced trees and pee a little river. After wiping, I look into the bowl; it’s dark yellow. I’m dehydrated again. Maybe that’s why I have a headache, and not the surgery. Too much coffee, vodka, and wine, and not enough water, I know.
I glance into the mirror over the sink stained with chalky white toothpaste, blue-green spit from my antibiotic mouth rinse, and bits of dried blood. I’m still puffy and the soiled tape on my nose has begun to pull away from my face, but I think I look a little better I convince myself. My black eye, which had turned yellow yesterday, was now hardly noticeable. I turn away from the mirror and step on my scale wedged between the vanity and the tub. You have step on it to get it to activate, step off, then on again. I usually step off again to bend down and read the number, as I’m usually not wearing my glasses. But with my head in pain, I squat instead. The first try I miss, and the blue numbers disappear before I can read them. I try again. 132! No, that’s not right, really? I think to myself, getting excited. Then do it again. 134.6. That’s probably right, and even though its not a big difference, I’m disappointed nonetheless.
Earth spins around the sun at an angle of
23.5 degrees, which is why we have different seasons. Most modern day calendars
divide the year into quarters: spring, summer, fall, and winter. The dates of
when these seasons begin and end vary depending on whom you ask. Most of us use the dates of equinoxes and solstices to mark the
beginning and end of seasons, but to be consistent and to make weather
forecasting easier, meteorologists divide the year into 4 meteorological
seasons of 3 months in length. Spring, for example, runs from March 1st
to May 31st.
No
matter when you think spring begins or ends, it seems to be always a season
full of contrasts, and this year is certainly no different. For me, it’s been filled
of many distinct moments full of emotion. I’ve watched my parents’ age right before
my very eyes, witnessing both of them feel pain like I’ve never seen before. My dad crying-out after part of his left leg was amputated and a
phantom pain wakes him out of a post surgical morphine haze. And my mom, can’t catch a break either, having to spend Mother's Day in the ER for hours, shaken by a mysterious pain that some of the best
doctors in Boston, who had just repaired her leaking aneurysm, can’t figure out and shake their heads bewildered. 
So I guess the joy I feel is connected to the emotions I feel for my parents. And as their
bodies become more fragile, I imagine each of them, 57 years ago,
falling in love and want to believe they once felt how I feel now, sparkling with life. I look at this time as magical and precious, but the more I try to hold on to it, it seems to slip through my fingers, like the sand we used to play in as children. Spring won’t last forever.
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