The view outside my window is being slowly corrected. In a couple of weeks the world should be green again. I’ve already forgotten what it smells like when the furnace kicks on, and I probably won’t give it a second thought until I smell it again in October. During the winter months I long for a good draught of spring air, but during summer I never sit around trying to remember what snow smells like. (Or perhaps, what the outside smells like when the ground is smothered in snow.) It’s like this constant seasonal blind spot – winter is forgotten the moment you can’t see it.
I’m still basking in that early-spring mania. It’s this sense of euphoric relief that begins at the end of winter, and lasts until the moment I have to go out and cut the dang grass.