Spring is here and has been, I suppose, for a bit. But it’s so timid. So reticent. It peeks in then darts away. It lurks in the doorway. An unsure child seeking his place. Your place was always with us. Always.

I stop and take pictures of every blossoming tree. This becoming is so becoming to me. I want to hold it still, breathe it in. And how ironic that the breathing it in can make so many of us miserable. What a conflicting thing this world can be.

The tight pink balls waiting to blossom. I guess they are cherry but what do I know. This place is not my home. It is, now, but still isn’t. I am a foreigner. I speak a different birdsong. I am friends with other trees. I am just acquainting myself with these. I pass one that looks like a rhinoceros. All grey with wrinkled knees and a branch that dares the other trees to tangle with him.

And then our route turns a corner and there is a tree with tiny white florets. Too small to be flowers and to me they are barnacles. And suddenly I’m aching for the sea. The sound of waves. Little purple and green anemones. I want to crouch near sea stars. Watch tiny fish dart into crevices.

My throat tightens with longing. Who knew a simple walk around the block could be so fraught. Such a bright and hopeful day hold so many old and misty memories.

I envy the blossoms. I envy the trees. I envy the neighbors. The only one I don’t envy is me.