My idea of spring has always been 80 degrees and sunny. Spring starts in February in my Arizonan experience. It’s baseball and hiking and outdoor brunches.
In Chicago, and many other places, spring is actually in the spring. It’s rain and sun, followed by more rain and then more sun. It’s unpredictable, fluctuating.
I’m learning that I had no idea what spring was until I moved here.
Spring means 50 degrees and foggy one day and 85 and sunny the next. It means seeing the trees start to sprout yellow-hued leaves that in a blink turn bright green. It’s watching the brown, muddy ground transform into grassy patches with tulips galore. It’s seeing bright blooms juxtaposed by the brick and cement of the city.
I love spring.