There are days, even in regions of the world not afflicted by The Long Dark, where winter feels interminable. Days where the muted tones of the sky reflect along the white walls of my under-decorated apartment, sunlight too diluted to cast shadows for the porthole window in which our star even deigns to shine upon Seattle from November through February. It’s light that imposes darkness, so meager as to heighten your awareness of what it’s not, magnifying what is missing. Spring has always come, the elephant on my chest has always risen and trotted off, baseball has come and swept the cobwebs of my spirit loose, reminding me who I am, but what if it doesn’t this time?
Spring comes for us all
