I Know I'll Often Stop and Think About Them

Unseasonable warmth in February- I shed my wool coat for my trench, a scarf. I rested my head back against the seat cushion as the train waited in the station with doors open while a steady breeze blew through my hair. The air was cool with warm undertones. A preview of an almost spring. I sat on the train in the eastern Long Island station and waited for the doors to close and the train to take off. And as I waited, I didn't fail to notice a ghost of my younger self ride her bike quickly along the side of the tracks, in the gray gravel. Her bike skid a little, she stuck her legs straight out, opened her eyes and mouth wide in anticipation of the tumble. But it didn't happen that way. The bike dipped and she sloppily dug one sneaker into the ground and caught her balance. She shrieked happily, pushed off and pedalled furiously away.

I remember how my sweatpants felt back then- pants I was allowed to get dirty when I rode my bike everywhere- they were baggy and had elastic at the ankles. I wore them with big white socks and sneakers. I had a "1986 World Series- Mets" sweatshirt. Or a puffy windbreaker. I always wore pony tails or french braids that, after a few minutes in the wind, my curls would fall out of. My tongue was usually purple or blue from a treat from the ice cream truck.

So I looked like a maniac... My bike was pink. I was a runny-nosed mess most of the time. But as a kid nothing was better than than the first signs of spring. In Queens where I grew up it meant running outside at even the faintest hint of warmth and turning over all the bricks, in the small garden we shared with my grandparents, to look for "rollie pollies" or lady bugs. My sister and I would dust our bikes off and pull them out of the garage and race along the train tracks behind our apartment. It was cold, but sort-of warm.

This old memory made me feel so comfortable I could have fallen asleep right there on the train. And I love the way weather holds such a memory for me- in a way no diary ever could.

Here's a great line from the book I'm reading, about a girl who tried to hold onto her memories so tightly, but after much reflection thought better of it:
"I was beginning to understand, and with the touch of an imaginary wand I released my prisoners, flung open the dining room doors and sent them on their way, let them go, scattered them like the seeds of a dandelion that one blows into the wind on a warm summer's day."

I kind of like the way these vivid memories come and go like an unseasonably warm winter afternoon. I can't summon that exact feeling just any time of the year, it's a special day that I remember these things. The memories aren't prisoners, they're visitors.

The train doors closed and we began to chug along. I couldn't shake that dusky, almost-spring feeling-- I was glad for it though. I didn't want to lose it like deja vu that slips away before you can figure out why it's so familiar. I wanted to hold onto it.

Almost spring used to make me sad, fill me with a sense of hopelessness. In college a boy broke my heart in the almost-spring. We sat on the pavement outside the dorm on one of our last days together and I watched as the girl I knew he'd started to like instead of me crossed the street in front of us. There was nothing I could do to stop the situation. So instead I went for an endless walk around the city in a big sweater and a scarf.

I don't remember what I thought about as I walked around the city until the evening turned too cold and windy that I had to return home. But I do remember exactly what it felt like that day, to put my hands on the cool sidewalk and push myself to my feet, before leaving him.

Later in life this time of year brings me right to Italy. When the air was cool and warm at once, I was in Florence. I remember the reddish tiles of the Tuscan roofs, the off-white walls, the over sized doors and the dark green shutters. The small, sleepy city with a river through it, the wide piazzas, the rising sun glinting on the cap of the Duomo... being alone in Europe- to call Europe home for a few months.... Almost spring in Europe smells like spinach quiche in the oven, sounds like a cool breeze rattling a tall row of cypress trees, smells like the shopkeeper's perfume, looks like the lights of shops along the downtown cobblestone streets.

My train kept on rolling past the familiar towns. I was headed back into the city. A place where I've spent, and continue to spend, many almost-springs.

The playground in Middle Village where my sister and I would roller skate the slopey perimeter... The promise of school almost being over before summer break... Going to church for Easter and noticing the tulips... Exploring an old, abandoned house with my best friend... Moving into my first nice apartment and sitting on the roof-deck to finish my favorite book while the sun set over Manhattan... Going for a comfortable jog along the Hudson River and past the doggie park...

I love to reflect and watch my memories grow up as I do, each year a different age. Seasons like birthdays taking me through life. I like to imagine what future memories I might create when the thermometer hits 50 in coming Februaries.