I want it to be Spring.
I bought skirts and dresses and light scarves, and I wanted to put them on and sit in the late afternoon sun drinking rosé wine. I did this, and I thought of my fragile French professor, who was une vraie française provençale, who drank her bone-dry rosé with a single ice cube in the golden warmth of a Nice cafe.
I want to read books in the sun and feel the air gently against my cheek, but this wind is too brisk to be frais. The long winter has dragged its feet into Spring's domain and I want it gone, I want to shake it off like a dog that ran through a puddle. Instead, it clings close, holding on for one last month.
Every spring, I forget, the way my voice forgets to separate you and all when I talk to my family on the phone. The barest hint of warmth and sun sends me sprinting to a garden shop for seeds and soil, even if that single warm day is in February. But this is May, and it is still too cold for rosé on the patio or for sandals or shirts with no sleeves.
I poured the wine anyway.