How You Like Me Now?

Each day warmer than the one before. Skirt hems lifted, shoulders suddenly tanned, and a whole new stillness in the thick, humid air. I skip down my stoop and am hit with flashbacks of a life in Greenpoint, simply because of the way the streets smell, the steps down to the subway. New York summer scents.

We spend our day in the Park, and she marvels at the newborn buds as much as I do. Her first spring on two feet; she devours the experience whole, while I tell her to be careful with the soft miniature leaves. I want to drink it all in too, to not miss a moment of spring. I take deep breaths as we pass the pear blossoms, the magnolias, the sweet-smelling Hoya relative; I keep my eyes wide open to see the grass grow, the sparrow chicks rummage about, the tulips along Park avenue gaze at us adoringly. The air is filled with birdsong, laughter, excitement, and we both giggle and chatter at nothing in particular. We need no excuse, today. I know it will be over soon, much too soon, and I don't want to miss a morsel.

There is a subway stop on 53rd street, where throngs of commuter suits are thrown up onto the streets every minute of the morning. In between cold high rises and agitated traffic, I am one of them. But the other day, they had turned on a fountain by my exit. In this concrete world now rushes a spring flood, unstoppable by the gray 9-5, unable to be silenced. Water rushes down constantly, happily, in its own spring mania. In my heart, I imagine it just broke free of the ice.

In my heart, I imagine I did, too.