Breaking Point.

End of Spring Break.

It is a beautiful 54 degrees Fahrenheit outside. I drove to Jennifer’s with my windows rolled down. James Taylor, Bill Withers, Alanis Morissette blasting at a volume threatening to blow my Civic’s factory-issue speakers–but ’tis the soundtrack of spring. The wind and the music enveloping me as I drive, focused only on the road and leaving the pain and the frustration that seem to characterize my waking life, if only for the twenty minutes it takes to get from Mom’s house to Jennifer’s. Rejuvenation. I had forgotten what it feels like.

Spring brings with it many things that I’d prefer it left behind. Like hay fever. Yellow-jackets. The buds that fall from Mom’s tree and stick to your shoes as you walk inside. The lack of surety as to the weather…will it snow today? Rain? Will we break 80? Which jacket should I wear? Pants or shorts? (The answer is always “pants,” because you can roll them into capris if it gets too hot, and “light jacket,” because it’s better to be too cool than too warm. And we only break 80 in the valley when someone commits to bringing their winter coat with them someplace, just in case.) When Chuck played soccer, we used to joke about spring season, and how it was actually winter soccer. More blizzards in April than October, along the Wasatch Front. Spring is fickle that way, though the weather is rarely predictable here.

But then there are so many things to love about spring. Daffodils. I don’t even like yellow, but I love daffodils. Mom’s always bloomed around Easter. And then Easter. I’m not much for the holiday, itself. But Easter means family dinner, and I’m a sucker for those. Then soccer. MLS has started up again. Boo and hiss as you will, those of you who think MLS is lame. I am a die-hard Real Salt Lake fan. Their home opener is tonight, and I’m taking Jennifer. He’s never been to a game, and that is simply unacceptable. I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t share the things I love with my nearest and dearest. Jennifer brought me comedy. I’m bringing him Nick Rimando.

And mid-way through spring, the semester ends. And summer classes begin. Summer classes are my favorite. I love the speed. No time to get bored. School should keep you on your toes–not because you’re tip-toeing around the broken pieces of your once-beautiful gpa, but because the pace is quick and the work is engaging.

And then there is the watching the world come back to life. I love that. Even here, where the air is disgusting and we seem to enjoy starting fires, the grass turns green again and under my mom’s ash tree becomes the coveted shady parking spot for all those visiting along her street. People begin to plan their gardens and commit to trying out the zucchini again, even though they never grow as big as Boyd’s do. It gets warm enough for picnics in the park, and hikes in the canyon, and you can stare in awe as the world seemingly puts itself back together again.

And I watch it all, and tell myself that if the world can do it, maybe I can too.


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