We have arrived at your first spring, little Mira. In a sense it’s my first spring too, in this peculiar arrangement of form, time and horizon. Still, I hold seasons of memories. Where you saw snow, you are now seeing the first flush of new life. Where you squinted below your woolen hat, pierced by the low arc of the winter sun, where you took in sips of cold breaths as the wind moved unchecked through the stoic silhouettes of New England trees, freezing momentarily to graze the tip of your nose, only to dance right past your cheeks, you will now pause.
You have pointed your way to a spot by a tree, the picnic mat is laid out on a gently sloping patch of green, and on this day of bountiful light you are here to receive nature’s warm embrace. There was hope and beauty in our dear neighborhood park before, but now it is unmissable.
Do you remember the long evenings from not so long ago, when we sat by the window and watched the sun set behind the haze of pitched roofs and bare branches? The short days, a splash of dusk, then the sudden sweep of an engulfing, deep blue. The birds flying in pairs, disappearing in the distance. And way beyond, visible on cloudless nights, stars blinking in lifetimes. Charcoal gray concrete stretching out below, shimmering momentarily as cars turned the corner with their headlights on, zooming in as yellow and amber in receding. And far out in the corner the tall building beaming its rooftop light – behind its metal and glass and sanitized hospital walls, on the third floor and a north-facing room, much before the first rays of the sun lit up the sky, you were born, my very own summer miracle.
Seated by the window framing our little Juliet balcony, I would trace your line of sight and tell you about the immediate things you saw: the trees and people and cars and streets and houses and that liquid column of light, and this very Mill River park that was visible in the distance, very little camouflaging it in the spareness of the season. The dense undiminished cold appeared to bind everything together in contemplation: renewal would happen, but not before retreating within. We would spot our reflections in the window and laugh before drawing the curtain. I have a few winters in me, baby girl, but I will tell you there aren’t nearly enough ways to fully absorb all of its stillness and steadying lessons.
Now, spring paves your way. Look around you! Can you see that nature has its own language? One day you will learn that there aren’t enough words for all the colors bursting forth from that which previously lay slumbering in silent meditation. There will be pinks and fuchsias and violets and lavenders and reds and crayons, but your being will be imbued with many more hues than can be named. When enough has washed over you, reaching between what is seen and reflected, you will find poetry.
We press our palms into an empty patch of earth; the ground is soft, thawing. Dandelions have sprouted from the soil and bloom with abandon, each growing solitary but several near each other. Interspersed with the grass are heart-shaped oxalis leaves – you are curiously considering the overlapping textures of the lush sprawl and I steal a few seconds to look for the elusive four-leafed clover. I don’t find it. We nearly miss the henbit, with its diminutive purple flowers and quivering leaves, before our gaze rests on the flamboyant early snow glories that fan out near the twisting trunk of the tree. We touch the violet and purple and white petals, gently, careful not to disturb their reverie. Warm air rises around us and for a brief moment chills our skin. We have spent much of the past few months indoors to keep the cold out and our bodies warm. But now even amid this coolness we’re distracted.
Later in the season, when the tree is covered in a dense canopy of leaves, the shade will be expansive. Much earlier than that, closer to today, dappled sunlight will glitter through bunches of fresh, pink-stained blooms. But it is still early spring now, and the bare branches of the cherry blossom tree, laden only with buds and fluorescent tips, cast shadows in twisted veins. We move an inch from the thick band of shade and the sun is back on us again, enveloping us in its glow. A squirrel, carrying a dry leaf, runs up the trunk on to a high branch, its tail glowing in the breezy afternoon light. A robin, perched on a lower branch, flutters its way to the ground, hops around chuckling, and then flies away before I can pull out my camera.
Below us, the shade tapers down the grassy slope and points to a narrow curving path. I carry you in my arms and jog along the incline. You squeal in delight. There are large and small rocks, and in patches, still dry sedges that crookedly line a stream. This isn’t our first time here – extending our arms out of the window only a few weeks ago, we had felt the ticklish zig-zagging rain of snow flurries, seen the park out in the distance and made up our minds to bundle up and make merry in our first snowstorm together. The stream hadn’t frozen over and the water flowed then too, as it flows now, cascading down a curve of rocks, smoothed over time. The ducks had swayed in groups, fluffing their feathers, sometimes breaking away and darting off, solitary. Further down the path, the trees that were shrouded in soft white heaps of snow that day, now with their assortment of buds and a few flowers are revealing to us what they are named: magnolias, dogwood, eastern redbuds, and more cherry blossoms.
I look at the ease on your face: you have warmed up to the outdoors, much like the weather itself. You say “Mama”, “Mummum”, “Mamama” and clap your hands. I interpret your singing to mean you want to be hugged tight, swirled and taken back up to the picnic mat. We eat fruit and cheese and flip through the pages of a square-shaped picture book. Sometimes you turn two pages at a time but it doesn’t interrupt any story; they’re all just shapes and impressions and you find them fascinating.
We should come back in a few days to see more flowers – cherry blossoms often peak all of a sudden, and magnolias barely last a week. Beds of crocuses and tulips are sure to put up a colorful show soon too. Through these first few seasons, I will be your record-keeper, your experiences tinged with my effusive wonder. Later, we will build our own maps back to moments. When we return to our first spring together, we will look for the chuckling robin – and if it is not here, we will remember its song.