90 days down and 2 days to go until spring.
Already the quality of the light and air has changed. There's a promise in the breeze that warm days are coming. The birds in the backyard are, more often than not, cavorting in pairs and preparing for the spring to come. The sun has climbed higher in the sky and is equally favouring the quadrants of the clothesline. I know that's a bit prosaic for a litany in praise of spring, but it's the little things like that which matter. And this is after all the account of a life lived in the laundry.
For the first time in years I have the time to stop and notice the change in the season. There's time to stand still for a bit and watch the sun, ponder its movement and glory in its warmth. Today is chillier, and I'm tempted to grab a jumper, but I won't. Spring is almost here and it is so close I can almost taste it. The light is different. It's not the icy light of winter any more. The days are longer, but not yet all that much warmer. They will be given the passage of a little time. We had a few days, a fortnight or so ago, where winter stole a few of spring's days and the warmth of the breeze soaked into every pore. Then winter turned nasty again and all we were left with was the memory of sun.
It's so close. We'll mark off the start of another season. I'll pack away the jumpers and my beloved rugby top for another year. This has been the rugby top's 15th winter and it is showing its age. It's frayed at collar, the hem is hanging and with every wash it threatens to become a little more threadbare, but it is my favourite garment. It makes winter bearable. I've had to apologise for it this year because it looks so ragged, but despite its decrepit state, or perhaps because of it, I love it.
Spring is coming. In two days it will be spring. Another winter weathered, and a new season to anticipate.
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