Something about spring reminds me of India. The air smells lively and interesting – a combination of sweet blossoms, warming tar, and a proliferation of people. It’s a far cry from the crisp, but plain, smell of winter. The mornings are cool enough for layers of wool but the afternoons bloom into a tan-giving heat. There are people e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e. And bikes. And animals. Where were they all living? The dogs, the birds, the rabbits and squirrels and cats. And roadkill. All that fresh roadkill. I keep looking out for monkeys, but haven’t spotted any yet.
I think often of that enchanting and maddening place. I miss it and yet I’m so grateful to be where I am.
(unrelated, but compelled to mention, the lilacs have leapt into action. I first spied them at the farmer’s market this morning and their unmistakable purple spires caught me unaware and took my breath away and brought hot tears to my eyes in a train shed surrounded by people. Oh, the lilacs, so sweet and so complicated. They’ve erupted over fences and gates all over the city – their ungainly and jubilant chaos truly heralds the arrival of spring and the next stage of grief. It really is the little milestones that are so. incredibly. painful.)