I love everyone who works at my local library branch so much that I’m constantly repressing the urge to hug them. (I started a film club that meets there bimonthly; come next Saturday!) Ditto for my sixtysomething dry-cleaner, who tenderly reinforces the buttons on my coats while her husband glowers from his corner. Ditto for the espresso jerks and Muppet critics at my local coffee shop, who wake me up as much as those Americanos do. Ditto for the sweetly serious Fairway cashiers, who slip me so many coupons that I can afford tulips and freesia with my fish and kale. Ditto for the gas attendant who calls me Amish Lady because I do my errands in floor-length polka-dotted nightgowns that I consider too pretty to only wear at home.
This afternoon I have been spring cleaning—laundering everything (even the curtains), changing my duvet cover, emptying out drawers and cupboards and the refrigerator, scrubbing out the microwave and the oven, organizing my closets. I even toted to Housing Works great bags of clothes I’ll never wear again, either because I’m no longer so willowy or because of stains and holes I’d been ignoring. Crisp and clean, that’s Spring 2015. It’s such a neat little poem that it rhymes, a fact I’m admiring with permakitten Grace as we watch the world waltz by our window and I sip a fancy drink with many juices. No sugar, thank you; just so much love.
