I’ve opened my windows to the call of birds who return this time every year. They are talking to each other and sound just as excited as I am for the change in season. I couldn’t name any of the birds I hear by their call, but I revel in the beautiful melody of their songs. After living in New England for eleven years now, my body shifts with the waxing and waning of daylight. My ears have adjusted to the sounds that arrive and depart as the melting snow gives way to the fertile soil below, awakening from her slumber. Even the trees appear to stretch their branches from their yearly slumber. Small hints of pine indicate what we all know, Spring is on her way.
I am a child of the south, a daughter of the Crescent City. When I was a little girl, in the rare event that it would snow, it was quite an event. Never enough to plow, let alone build a snowman and gone before the days end. But it always was a wonder. In New Orleans’ subtropical climate, we would get something like winter, but never what the Northeast has. Being a child who spent most of my time out in the thick of the humid New Orleans air, I never knew what it was to long for Spring. It was always outside my front door awaiting me. But now that I live in New England, I have had eleven years, forty-four seasons to take notice. To pine for warm air and count down the days until I can pack up our winter wears, open all the windows and let the first breezes of spring in.
Copyright 2021. Gabrilla Ballard.
