Spring is Possible
optimism at the end of the world
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“Seasons” are something a little different if you’re from Florida, where there is no such thing.
Growing up where I did, a place I affectionately refer to as “the island,” they were more of an idea than a reality.
For example, spring was defined not by the blooming of flowers or a warm shift in the temperature.
There was no shift in temperature.
Unlike New York, Spring was not marked by the first glimpses of skin that had been hiding under long sleeves for months on end, causing men and women of all ages to be swept up in a twitterpated frenzy of sex and sinus infections.
Spring on the island was calendar-defined: March, April, and half of May.
Or, for those still in grade school, January ‘til May - like the semester.
Summer spanned from May to August, and fall from August to December.
Winter was a myth.
Its existence could only be confirmed by the videos of snow falling in exotic places like Denver and Ohio.
The only snow caps you’d find near the island were made of sea-foam and construction paper.
This year, though, it’s as if winter replaced the endless summer and has us in a death grip.
Instead of a hot, humid, and sunny existence, the year has been unendingly black, bleak, and sullen.
There have been times where every action we took seemed to be entirely in vain, and I couldn’t grasp my head around why on earth we worked so hard.
Why did we fight so viciously to stay here?
The pain had been strong, the loss had been real, and the fear had, at times, won.
Lately, I’ve yearned for the seasonless warmth of childhood on the island.
And, like a child, I’ve imagined a better future for all of us.
The fear can’t win.
It is cold now, yes, but it cannot be cold forever.
We have to be patient.
The season of new life will come.
At the very least, a conceptual spring is imminent.
Even if the Fahrenheit does not change, spring is possible.
Spring is possible.
Because we did fight hard.
We fought with our bodies, our minds, and our monies.
We planted seeds, watered them, spoke to them, and injected them with our love and passion.
We asked for God and Zeus and Mother Nature to bless us with some semblance of fortune, and we must trust that they will provide.
We must imagine that, tomorrow morning, while standing on cold hard concrete, we’ll see a glimmer of the sun waking up from her nap in the sea.
She will speak, and we will listen.
We’ll listen harder than we’ve listened to anything in our whole lives, desperate for some sign that spring is nigh.
We’ll listen for confirmation that things might go back to how they were when the world was warm.
That we can make them go back.
That, if we work hard and pray hard and work harder again and again, that we can make the world a better place.
That hope isn’t lost forever.
That spring is possible and warmth hasn’t become a myth like Winter.
She will speak, and we will listen to her words.
That everything has changed, and going back isn’t an option.
Now that she was woken up, the days of unchanging are over.
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