I think it's the weather but I'm not sure but then again, neither is the weather. One minute it is gun-metal gray, flat and ominous overhead, every bird call an Alfred Hitchcockian/Poe shrill raven cry of forewarning and foreboding. An hour later, the sun is flat-blasting the earth and the earth steams from all the rain and wet and it's so humid the walls of the house cry sacred tears of moisture like some Mary in a church- oh! it's a miracle, no it's not, it means nothing but more mold, that's the only meaning in that and the birds gather and cackle and chip and chirp but still they sound concerned- a snake in a nest?
Every cliche is coming to mind and spring cleaning and spring fever, foremost among them at this second. I open a window, long winter-shut, and the space between screen and sill is black with Lloyd dirt, I could (should) spend days with bucket and rags, mops and brooms. I should (do) throw open windows and doors, I should (do not) pick out paint colors, scrub mildew off walls.
My brain is as addled as the weather. I swear- I cannot focus it on one thing but feel a desperate need to rush and hurry and do and yet, do not want to do any of it, not one damn thing. Oh. I do not know.
When Owen is here I can't keep my hands off that head, I want to stroke his hair, I want to touch his cheeks, I want to run my finger over the rim of a perfect ear and when he says, "MerMer no wash dishes. Play chess with Owen!" I want to die and yet, I stand at the sink like some mean old scrinch-faced harridan, and I say, "No, Owen, I have to wash these dishes!" and I don't even know why. No one HAS to wash the dishes. And when he leaves he says, "MerMer come Owen's house?" and part of me wants to just jump in the car and go with him because I can't bear to let him go and part of me can't wait for a moment to myself, oh, please...a moment. To myself. For myself.
I am so selfish with these moments. They seem to be so few and far between that I cannot decide on what it is I want or need to do with them and they leak out of my hands like sand, like puffs of air, spring air that tinkles the windchimes, that lifts the yellow pollen and carries it away.
And then- I see my mother and where she is and how she is and I think, oh god, she is only twenty-seven years older than I am, and do you know how quickly twenty-seven years can go by? Like that, like that puff of air, take in a breath, let it out, there you go. Gone. And then, if I am still alive, my moments will stretch like eternity and my mind, my body won't let me do a damn thing with those moments and that makes me feel crazier, more frantic to use whatever time I have in the best way possible and in what way? How?
Shhh, shhh, shhh.
I am doing it, I am spring-fever time-tripping, I am back when it smelled and felt this way thirty years ago, ten years ago, last year. This is what change-of-season does. It wipes away everything but pure visceral remembering. These bird calls, this air-feel, this light-slant, this dirt-smell, this exact temperature and humidity, this sound of tiller, windchime song, this sight of sky from gray to blue, these blossoms, this yearning, longing, reaching, waiting.
And yet, this is now, or, is it? I do not understand time nor how it works and I don't think anyone does except perhaps those few with brains that fire completely and correctly who can hold concepts of vibrating strands of connectivity throughout the universe while the rest of us are stuck here with air-on-skin, with eyes-to-sky, with body filled with this season's red blood, pulsed through by this one life-to-death beating heart and I almost feel the need of some old remedy, a bleeding, perhaps, by leaches or barber's sharp razor, but this is not a treatment we espouse any more and so we are left with all of this blood, frothed to high volume with spring, perhaps, until we don't know whether to dance or collapse, to sing or to sob, to cradle to us or to push away from us.
It is a confusing time of year, of life, of everything. For me, at least.
I am just being honest and should go plant something or clean something or perhaps just sit silently and weep at either the beauty of life happening again and again or of the certain dark inevitability of death, I do not know and am not sure it matters, call it what you will.
And you? Do you feel this way?
Here we are, we puny humans, we tiny unknowable, entirely predictable creatures and the birds are either singing of hunger or life or danger or all of it. I think we can call it love and leave it at that.