In my mind,
It feels like not all the trees are greener, despite it being Spring.
It feels like not all the daisies have bloomed, despite it being Spring.
It feels like not all the hummingbirds are humming, despite it being Spring.
It feels like not all the butterflies are flying, despite it being Spring.
This spring feels different. This spring in my head feels tasteless.
This spring has yet to bloom —sometime soon.
In my mind, Spring has yet to come.
The calendars say it has. The poppies of Antelope Valley have risen. Tulip fields are now open.
People have begun to pick strawberries and avocados. Picnic baskets are now in fashion.
The sky laminates itself with all the pastels and neons of blue and red that the sun could
possibly lend it. It’s hard for me to feel the sky’s vibrance that they all see, but I keep that to myself.
If I let them know, they would question me: why is it that I don’t see past the gray? They would
say it’s not that bad, the sky could be darker, the flowers could be dead–things could be worse.
Why can’t I just see the Spring that they all see?
Sometimes, I ramble on to others and especially to myself.
I tell them Spring is coming, it’s so close. The flowers have yet to bloom. The insects
have yet to buzz and the skies have yet to pour. My mind continues to wander on a pane
above the clouds in empty air, trying to look past the white to see if there are any other
colors in sight.
I stand there absurdly — pleading with the soil to ground me, begging the winds that have
shaped me to let me see the orange poppies beside my feet, and asking for the trees not to hide
from me. I’m left flailing, trying to grasp onto any lingering wisp of the bloom that may take me
to the present so that I can feel this Spring, too.
This spring feels a lot like the snow of winter. Slow, overshadowing, intimate, and
This spring feels a lot like the droughts of summer. Dry, pessimistic, painful, and
This spring feels a lot like the winds of fall. Harsh, cold, isolating, and rough.
This spring feels like anything but spring. It feels like an attack on me: as a woman, as a
daughter, as a human.
The spring is just a little less green, a little less bright, a little less colorful than all the other
springs I have ever seen.
Slowly and slowly, everyone else moves away from me to talk about Summer. The ungodly heat,
the summer breeze, the mangos, and the bees. They’ve all left me in the middle of a field, telling
me this is it, that was it — that was Spring, look around —
but my toes crinkle the dead grass between them.
Like a pulled flower, I bewail as I try to pick up my petals scattered across the grass, each one
leaving my hands as I reach to pick up another.
And as I spend my time doing so, the calendar says that Summer’s gone by. The hot sun beats on
the back of my neck as winds run dry. The flowers and trees whither themselves out in the
gardens of whose owners don’t water them. Though nights are meant to be shorter, they feel
longer and strained.
Unfortunately, now Fall is here and Winter is right around the corner.
And for some strange reason, my mind still isn’t convinced that Spring had ever arrived.
In my mind,