Spring

March is such a hopeful month, full of light and flowers, possibilities, too. The hyacinth in the planting strip have bloomed. The tulips won’t be far behind. The vernal equinox is the 19th. Our wedding anniversary is the 20th. My Mom’s birthday is the 22nd. Hope and melancholy mix like the smell of decaying leaves and fresh flowers. They live side by side. They always have. I just notice more now.

I am excited to clear the beds in the backyard, make a plan for new flowers and vegetables. The idea is to remove the decaying back deck and replace it with a red brick patio from a mountain of bricks that have been beside this house for years. (Red brick and a green and white house–I’m determined to carry a little Athens, Ohio, and Ohio University with me wherever I go.)

The melancholy hits a little harder when the sweetness of life is so good. My heart aches for my husband to be with me so we can cook, and talk, and play. I miss my mama and wish she could hug me, demonstrate what grace and forgiveness in action look like all over again, and remind me once more that I’m brave. I’m surrounded by family, friends, coworkers, neighbors who make this life rich. Full heart. Broken heart. Every day.

I find that on the cusp of a season change, I have one or two really wakeful nights. Maybe my body is adapting to the lighter days, maybe it’s more than that. Lack of sleep brings more things to the surface, too. I’m crying a little more easily of late. That’s the nature of grief–always present, manifesting itself as it will.