Our apricot tree has bloomed right through the frosty weather. Now we’ll see how many of them stick. The first blossoms appeared during the last week of February. Now it’s St. Patrick’s Day and they are still opening, some puffed and ready, while the oldest look like hairy spiders attached to the limbs — at least that’s the way they looked yesterday afternoon, when I paid the tree a visit without my glasses on. Spidercots — rows of little beds with spiders on them, their legs dangling over the edge.
A strange thing — while I was out walking last night, just around the bend by the big oak tree, a part of me that must have been otherwise occupied suddenly inhaled a breath too large for my nose. The result was a rush of cool spring air that bypassed my lungs and went straight to my brain, filling the entire cranial cavity with stardust and about a hundred different kinds of pollen, topped off by bumblebees’ wings and the nostalgic scent of old dolls’ clothes — well — I told you it was strange. And so I climbed out of my cradle and into the arms of my mother. She said it was almost time for school. She dressed me in green — Otherwise you might be pinched — and pushed me to the side of the road just in time to get on the bus. I was on the bus for what seemed like years but turned out to be far longer, an eternity of little breakfasts with homemade jam and sunlight on the table and sparrows outside singing jubilantly in the tree — well — not so strange after all — you — see.
March 17, 2020
[ 697 ]