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past perfect, future tense

i’m in denial.

this is probably true in more ways than i realize — or would like to admit — but the way i’m most obviously in denial right now is the season and the weather.

it is winter, and i am living in spring.

the sunset paints the sky during my five o’clock walk to my car after work. by the time dinner time becomes dessert time, the sky is pitch black, not yet sprinkled with stars.

the wind is roaring outside my window, rising to a howl as it whips around the naked, fragile branches of the trees.

it is sock weather, slipper weather, sweater weather, snow weather.

well. i don’t have anything against snow, except that it gets dirty when people drive through it.

but my mind is not with the snow, or the promise of it, or the threat of it.

my mind is rambling outside, barefoot, with a sun-warmed face and eyes taking in delicate buds silhouetted against a heart-breakingly blue sky, or bright green grass sparkling with dew as the early morning sun hits it.

spring is two months away; i keep forgetting it’s not quite halfway through january.

but the music in my head says it’s spring.

and so do my memories.

i don’t know what prompted my sudden nostalgia, or why my recollections seem to say everything was perfect then. i’m very happy now, and, while last year was wonderful and lovely, not everything was easy. emotionally it was a roller coaster as i learned to deal with the aftermath of surgery and tried to figure out what normal life looked like.

funny thing about the memory, though. i don’t remember the sting of the hard, lonely bits. only the golden glow.

so if i look a little lost … you know where to find me.

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