Springtime

It was 74 degrees today in the Blue Ridge Mountains and spring is edging its way in. There is still some cold weather coming — Monday night is predicted to drop to the mid-20s. But the signs of shifting seasons  are all over. 

The daffodils have popped, the Bradford Pears are white lace, and the empty winter tree branches are feathering out with buds. 

According to the calendar, the new year begins mid-winter, but in practical terms it is the reawakening of nature that lets us know that we can all start over again. The year circles around to the beginning and we can put our overcoats back into the closet. 

It is a comforting thought, but the fact is, the recurrence of spring sits in equipoise with the hurtling forward of age. The trees come alive again, but I only get older. 

I have seen 76 springs, and when I was a boy, each season lasted years. Summer vacation seemed endless and the next school year might as well begin in a science-fiction future, eons away. As a grown-up, the year passed by almost unnoticed. Winter just meant sloppy roads; summer just meant sweat and iced tea. I went to my job every day, no matter. 

But I am old now, and the season change has yet another meaning. 

One of the impenetrable facts of being 76 years old, even in decently good health, is that I have a limited number of springs ahead of me. 

I have to face the possibility that this one now could be the last; there is no counting on next year or the year after that. 

It’s not that I am anxious over the likelihood of my existence being cut short, after all, over eight decades, from 1948 to now, it has been a long and I hope fruitful life. 

But the uncertainty of future springs makes this one more necessary. I am paying attention more than ever before, and although I have always enjoyed the spring, it feels closer to the bone this year. 

I don’t want to miss a moment of it. 

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