I don’t have time to write about spring, so I’ll keep this short.
But someone had to say it: Spring at Colby is a mockery.
The cold of winter is still coiled in my tailbone. I need to go outside and thaw. And yet, here I am, confined to work undone. So many full pages to read, so many empty pages to fill.
Spring at Colby is a mockery.
I watch the pen-drawn world soften and saturate. It looks more like an oil painting now, smeared and moving. The edges of winter are blurring; silhouettes give way to bodies.
My own body is changing, too. It grows more restless––eager to stand, and stretch, and flee the brick walls of academia. I can hear the doorframe calling me, walk through.
As the pile of work before me grows, my neck cranes to the light. Like a stubborn indoor flower, twisting in its pot. If only flowers had final exams.
Just weeks ago, the wooded arboretum fringing campus was a wall of grey trees, flat and forlorn. These days, it’s deepening. New colors appear, giving the forest layers and intrigue.
On campus, the trees’ daily changes are more obvious. Their once-skeletal branches are filling out, tempered by buds and tiny sprouts. This scrub will mature into green foliage soon, polished and predictable. But for now, all I see are muted shades of yellow and red, clinging to branches like undergarments. I wonder if the oak and maple feel embarrassed this time of year, caught half-dressed.
The cherry, meanwhile, swells with pride. Blooming brilliantly, her branches drip with lavish pink petals. Unlike her scrappy peers covered in peach fuzz, this tree wears a cascading ballgown of flowers. I feel jealous just looking at her. Like a full moon in a starry sky, she sucks up all other light. The cherry will be ordinary in a few weeks––with a small stature and unimpressive foliage––but today, she’s the supermoon.
May’s eclectic collage reminds me of autumn months. But while fall is smooth and mature––gracefully waltzing through a firework display of foliage and darkening nights––spring arrives on shaky legs. It’s messy, like an adolescent tumbling from bed. There’s something relatable about that. Endearing, even. I don’t mind an awkward first impression.
What I do mind, however, is watching this all from behind a window. I feel left out.
I should be kinder to my potted flowers.
With stollen time, I wander through the blushing arboretum. Soft earth gives way underfoot, slurping my sneakers into the trail. I pretend to scrape the dirt off afterwards, but secretly, I enjoy the muddy stains.
Even if they mock me.
Quiet Histories 