Spring

Spring is the ficklest of seasons.  Even as birds sing and red buds burst forth, the air is chilled.  I, sunburned from a week in the Caribbean, stare longingly out the window as tulips and cherry blossoms dispatch their petals to the winds.

The breezes in Jamaica were a far cry from these chilly gusts.  The clouds had not yet lifted from the highest peaks on the island when we boarded the bus to take us to our private beach.  The skinny Jamaican girls flirted and chided as we wove through the countryside just outside of Ocho Rios.  Far from the mangy goats and dirty children, we, the bloated pasty americans from the gaudy cruise ship, rushed out onto the golden sands.  No beggars here.  No reefer.  Plenty of rum punch and jerk chicken and helpful attendants who at once seemed both friendly and weary with us.  The sea was an opal, shimmering under the sun's gaze.  In the distance, the lush rainforest dropped into the water.  I closed my eyes and wished I could always remain so warm, so satisfied, so satiated.

I skip out the door and barely get down the steps before I return to the house for a sweater.  The cheerful sun has tricked me once again.  Why are the birds singing so gaily in this chilly weather?  The daffodils bob their gentle bonnets in the wind as I wrap my arms around myself.  I long for Jamaica.  Or at least June.