I am willing on the spring, I am ordering seeds. I'm not foolish enough to plant them yet, not even indoors, but I will finger the packages and draw plots with a pencil and dream of sugar peas and sweet corn and sprinklers.
I'm cutting back on the piles of scarves and hats and mitts by the door, washing them and drying them and packing them away. Too soon you say? Maybe. Maybe we'll freeze, and other mothers will look at my children with their brightly colored sneakers and light sweaters and will shake their heads - but they will be envious on the inside. Of our brightly colored outfits.
I am buying pots of flowers and placing them in the windows, refusing to look at the dismal grey outside, and instead focusing on the beauty of the petals, the smell of the dirt. I'm digging my fingers into the dirt of these early spring flower pots and humming and pretending I am in my garden. This is weird, maybe, but I'm doing it.
I dislike February.
I am willing on the spring, I am sewing spring dresses. On a dark and stormy night, rain beating on the window. My feet are cold, my tea's gone cold and I have to make bias binding, but sewing spring dresses will bring on the spring. I swear.
