An Open Letter to Spring

Dear Spring,

You’re not too far off now! I know you’re coming soon, because every day I see another hint of you, another little clue telling me you’re just around the corner. Yesterday, I could have sworn you were here. The sunshine was warm on my skin, and there was a soft breeze playing with my hair. Campus was alive with people crawling out of the shells of their coats and boots to take to the grass with soccer balls, the courts with basketballs, the picnic tables with sandwiches and a friend. It was beautiful, Spring, just like you.

Your frigid older brother is still holding on, of course. According to my calendar, his time isn’t up yet, and we both know that he’ll try to stick around for as long as he can. The app on my phone tells me not to put away my sweaters just yet and to hold on to my gloves, because I’ll be needing them soon when Winter reasserts himself.

But it won’t be for long, because I know you, Spring. I know you creep in slowly before being here to stay. You tease me with pretty yellow days before giving me the warmth to match. You bring back the birds, reacquaint me with their cheery songs, before giving them places to hide among budding trees. You turn the grass soft and green once more before gifting me with sweet-smelling rainbows of wildflowers. You give me subtle signs right under Winter’s nose that his time is almost up, that you’re waiting in the wings to thaw me and bring the world back to life.

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You Could Call Me Shoe-perstitious…

A fact about me: I very seldom put away my shoes. Call it my fatal flaw. (Fatal as in, if you trip over the mess on my floor, you run the risk of breaking something.) As such, I generally have just about every boot, sneaker, and flip-flop I wear on a semi-regular basis scattered across my side of the dorm, abandoned wherever I last removed them and half-heartedly kicked into differently shaped piles as I move them out of my way. (My running shoes, however, sacred objects that they are, receive a place of honor neatly lined up on the shelf beneath my bed in their order of rotation—green, pink, blue.)

A few nights ago, a friend was over, standing carefully among my footwear graveyard. Just as he was about to leave, his eye caught on something resting in an old, beaten pair of Chuck Taylors: a penny, rubbed shiny by the frequent polishings of a sock-clad foot.

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It’s My Party and I’ll Post If I Want To

When I was little, I loved disposable cameras. I loved everything about them, from the whine of the charging flash to the hollow click of the shutter button to the anticipation that came from waiting for that magical phone call. Hello, this is the Wal-Mart photo center. Your film has been developed and is ready for pick-up.

Most of all, though, I loved the finished product, being able to hold in my hands little snapshots of my past (and by past, I mean my two weeks ago, because that’s an eternity to a seven-year-old). These photos were proof that I had done something, but more importantly, they were perfect time capsules of the things I loved. My favorite things in life were among my most popular photography subjects, and those nice little photo packs were often filled with pictures of my room, my toys, and my parents from unflattering angles. It was important to me then, just as it is now, to be able to capture these things so I could always remember them.

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When a Runner Can’t Run

Legs bouncing. Fingers tap-tap-tapping, then running through hair. Teeth tugging at lips. Sighing heavily. Unease in the pit of the stomach, tension in the shoulders, one thought in the brain:

I. Need. To. Run.

For the past week, I’ve been disastrously sick. Cold chills, stuffy head, body aches, and exhaustion are just a few of the things I’ve battled with tissues and tea from my bed during the beautiful hours when I’m not dragging myself through the winter slush to get to class. (It’s been fun. A blast. Best week ever.)

And thanks to this illness, I’ve been living every endorphin junkie’s nightmare:

I haven’t been able to run.

In a week.

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