Maybe, in plural

I like Spring. Now, I do anyway. I used to despise it for its fickle weather and that weird feeling it gives to anyone who likes living in dark places, under covers. Spring forces you to come out and look around, forces you to take note and think about the future. Children are born and everything bursts into bloom. And I suppose that's what I hated most: the promise of change.

And I've spent so many of my years trundling around in a theater or interior office or kitchen: windowless rooms in which to perform alchemy, to re-create the world in my own (interior) likeness. And I suppose that's why I hated Spring, which managed to perform its magic in full-view of the sun and sky; while mine required slight of hand, and a, "don't look behind that curtain"!

But today I'm gazing down from a downtown window, the streets filled with lunchtimers, and I'm struck by the hope. It's not warm today, barely sunny, barely spring-like. But folks seem to be skipping, leaping from place to place in joy. Or maybe that's just what I think I see today.

Maybe there isn't more hope today. Maybe I just think there is. And maybe that makes all the difference.