Here in the East, we’d be awaiting spring, our cotton khakis and polo shirts stacked in the wings.
The daffodils in the Park, who’ve just arrived like pretty girls, would delight us, knowing they’re emissaries, announcing her imminent arrival.
We’d shake out our rugs, squirrels their tails amid a chorus of cardinals singing.
Wow, you’d think, sounds a little like, That’s Life, or is it, Moon River, then realize it is Sinatra, crooning from a boom box in a bicycle basket, propped up against a tree.
More babies would be out, gushing and gurgling, moms preening with pride.
We’d notice a change, in just about everyone, as we shed layers, like skin.
The newsboy, the fruit man, vendors and cops. Truck drivers, hard hats, baristas and kids. Even dogs perk up, knowing better than we do, life doesn’t get much better than in warmer climes…grass to roll in, the sun on our backs.
We’d hear the cheerful chimes of Mr. Softee, nannies treating their charges to Double Cherry Dips dribbling down their chins, a rightful rite of passage, that comes in a cone.
There are no masks or gloves, nor the scent of bleach coating the subway steps, reminding you…
DON’T TOUCH THE RAILING.
No, we’d be smiling, scrolling our Tweets making plans for dinner, dancing, dreaming without fear, but alas…
spring will look different this year, making us appreciate her more next year, with all this behind us.