Marching Forth

Henry remembering summer

April is supposed to be the cruelest month, but in fact it’s March that deserves that crown. At least in these parts, April doesn’t regularly erupt into spontaneous snow squalls and spawn northwest winds that fling the snow shovel across the street into the side of the neighbour’s minivan. Luckily, the shovel doesn’t have any identifying marks and anyhow, snow shoveling won’t be required until eight or nine months from now. If I have any say in the matter. March changes the angle of the sunlight so I can now see the great swaths of cobwebs that apparently partied on the ceiling all winter, but are now wrung out from their excess, lethargic and limply burdened with dust that is a disconcerting shade of grey.

Spring officially arrives this month and I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but that raises the specter of spring cleaning. Even my trees need to be tidied up. There’s a piece of a plastic bag that’s been waving from a branch of the magnolia on my front lawn all winter. The uppermost branch, of course, impossible to reach without many implements, all of which are currently far enough back in the nether regions of the garage they are probably in range of the Mars Perseverance rover. You might think March could use its gale force superpowers for good instead of evil. You would be wrong. March will continue its relentless March-ishness (Marchinations?) until it decides not to. Which may or may not be on March 31.

I am pleased to announce that, after only three short years of residence in this house, I now have innards in my bedroom walk-in closet. Prior to this moment, my hang-ables were scattered hither, thither, and yon, upstairs and downstairs and below stairs. My shoes were scattered like flotsam and jetson, never revealing themselves long enough to reach the welcoming shores of my feet. But like everyone else, the full bounty of my wardrobe has been socially and sartorially distanced from me for at least the past year. For example, while I was hunkered down at the cottage for the summer, pretty much all I wore was a bathing suit. Since the fall, workout wear and a jean dress (for fancier Zoom calls) have been in heavier rotation than Drake. Throughout, I am smugly proud to say, my feet have remained mostly bare, except for outdoor excursions or visits to my home gym. And even then, sometimes they were still bare. So there.

Some helpful person (who is probably in line to be the first colonizer of Mars, and I certainly wish her well in packing for that journey), said if you haven’t worn anything for a year, you should assess whether or not you actually intend to ever wear it. Here’s the thing. Since I moved to this house, when my hang-ables were first hung in their far-flung closets, and when most of my shoes were piled in a lump in their dark corners, I have not touched them. It appears I’m already two years past the point at which most of my clothing became pointless. Maybe that’s why I have all those dreams about being naked in public. Clearly, no clothes are good enough for me.                 

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