The brownstones stretch around Union Park. Street lamps light the way. The tell-tale scent of spring carries on the night wind. It is the smell of awakening, or the re-awakening as it were. As it is. There will be a re-birth, like there is every year. We will celebrate anew, both forging and remembering. Whenever I begin to mourn the past, Kira reminds me that we are making new memories every day. Her optimism is like the spring – ever-renewed, everlasting – and the perfect antidote to my wintry pessimism.
On this Friday night, I wait for the spring to slip in while I sleep, longing for the first nights we can sleep with the windows open, air out the staleness of winter, rustle the dusty curtains.
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