I’ve written before about how my childhood springtimes in Texas failed to coax any drop of sentimentality out of me. In fact, I couldn’t understand why so many people went into raptures around the end of March. Our primary spring imports were mud and allergies, and the weather’s slow slide from warm to really warm hardly seemed worth rhapsodizing. (It’s entirely possible, of course, that I could have put more effort into noticing the seasonal beauty, but I was always loyal to autumn with its crackling leaf piles and nutty breezes.)
Here in Italy, however, this time of year is like personalized catnip. Only a flimsy fondness for decorum keeps me from rolling around in every patch of wild daisies I see, paws flying and propriety punch-drunk on sunshine. Not only have I stopped minding when others wax poetic about spring, I’ve started my own list of celebratory ballad topics:
- The sight of freshly washed socks tiptoeing on the line rather than slung over radiators to steam dry. (If any of you knows Journey’s song-writing team, you’re welcome to direct them here.)
- The scent of my favorite lemon perfume laced with memories of Sorrento and excitement over this Easter’s camping trip.
- The texture of damp earth, the elemental weight of seeds between finger and thumb, and the whisper-touch of newborn plants.
- The sound of the girls’ laughter spirited away by the open air, waltzing in windows and back out to whirl under their footsteps.
- The flavor of 2011’s first strawberries, sorbet for dessert, and cherry blossoms dished up on periwinkle breeze.
What about you? Does anything about this time of year stir you into a feline frenzy and/or inspire you to poeticize socks?