Early March. Snowdrops and crocuses are blooming, as are the daffodils.
Snowdrops, beautiful delicate white flowers, coyly looking down at their feet. I remember wrapping their trimmed stems in wet paper towel, then plastic wrap. The downturned eyebrows and “aw” of my favorite teacher when I proudly presented them to her.
Crocuses, narrow vase-shaped purple and yellow blooms. They tell me Spring is almost here.
Daffodils, already in bloom. Back home, they arrive in April; my favorites have white petals and yellow trumpets. The hills of our park are covered in an army of daffodils, thousands standing proud.
This beautiful trio of color is what brushes away the lethargy of winter. Endless gray skies, bitter wind and rain, minimal daylight truncated by late sunrises and early sunsets. The gray is cast over everything, making food taste as bland as the tree branches that loom overhead, naked and spindly.
Meanwhile, the flesh on my hips grows thicker with raclette, inactivity and torpor. My head is stuffed with cotton, and I feel myself disappearing, daily, soundlessly into the fog-laden hills of my morning walk.
My gray existence receives a jolt every year, upon sight of these flowers.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and go outside to pick one. The first sight of vibrant color in months turns my world back into technicolor.
It’s nearly time to come out of hibernation.