I have my eye on a white metal bistro set from Target. It's just big enough for the gangway behind my apartment during warm weather, and it'll fit perfectly in my sunroom when it gets too cold outside. I'll find little cushions for the chairs and a tiny floral tablecloth to lay over the tabletop when I'm feeling fancy. (Often.)
On Sundays, I'll take my coffee — brewed double strength and poured over ice — and iPad to the back deck, my bare feet on the peeling, teal-painted planks and sit for hours, scrolling through "oh, I'll read it later" article after article on the fingerprint-smudged screen. I'll play NPR inside and listen through the screen door, or turn off the stereo and just let the city symphony of rustling leaves, banging doors, alley traffic, Brown Line, church bells, baseball-bat cracks and scuttling squirrels lull the week away.
This is the first time I can remember longing for summer. Yearning for it. Craving it.
I'm an autumn girl in a summer city. But lately, I've never wanted warmth so badly, to fling open my windows and let the warm cross-breeze blow through the apartment, to feel my hair cling to the back of my neck, to escape to the puppy beach on the weekends, to wear flouncy, low-back sundresses and flippy sandals and sip sparkling rosé on a buzzing patio until the sun dips below the low-rises on Western Avenue.
Green shoots of tiny crocuses are starting to poke through the dry, cracked soil along Leland Avenue, the street I take to get home from the train station, and there are already fuzzy buds sprouting tentatively from the magnolia trees. It even smelled a little like spring today.
People have started to trickle back outside, realizing the wet, messy winter we were promised never reared its ugly head. (And, of course, there's still time for the ugly, but if this is "in like a lion," March, I'd like a word with your casting director.)
I don't know what's changed about me, or whether anything has at all. None of this means much. I guess I just wanted to say…I’m ready.