We're having a real, honest-to-god thunderstorm tonight. It's March. Eleanor is tucked between me and Nick, who is sleeping through it. I ask him if he wants me to turn out the light and he mumbles, so I leave it on.
Rain makes me long for summer, and the South. I miss sleeping during midnight storms, or walking through a shower on my way home from work in Savannah. I'd carry my sandals in one hand and my umbrella in the other. One time I splashed through confetti from a store opening. It had drifted into the street and I remember walking on it, noticing how it glittered in the puddle. I remember how lonely I was, just me and a kitten, but also how alive I felt.
March is a turning point, where days get longer and temperatures begin to rise. I can shed layers and cook lighter. March is when I know we'll be okay, because winter is waning. We'll make it another year. The cherry blossoms bloom, the magnolia blossom, and I'm somewhere in the middle of it all.