Every teacher everywhere: "Way too fast!"
You clever little fellow. Every year you get me.
As the snow falls in February, the hint of your name soothes the savage beast inside of me raging with cabin fever. Your intoxicating scent is often brought through a burning flame of a candle fabricated to smell like the sand and lapping waves that welcomes my feet each and every time. I allow myself to get lost in daydreams of sunbeams and a delayed moon. Fireflies will often dance through my mind as I watch the snow flakes settle on the previously shoveled mounds. I long for extended hikes with mud underfoot and a symphony of birds all around me. Crystal, chlorinated water calls to me...welcoming a multitude of cannonballs and breath-holding contests. I love getting caught red-handed after discovering wild raspberries ripe for the picking. You are by all stretches of the imagination, an open door to new adventures and the promise of much needed renewal.
And then you arrive. The wait is over. You always ease me in...slowly. Warming me up to the thought that you'll be around for a full nine weeks. But then something happens. A fast forward button is pressed, a time machine is altered, a worm hole is opened and POOF! You are gone. Before the raspberry stains are completely faded from my fingers, I hear the school bell ring. Buses circle like flies as waves of backpacks race toward them. Bird harmonics have been replaced by alarm clocks. It's time.
My internal conflict of carefree vs. the slight longing for structure is ever raging. So, I bid you adieu. I thank you softly and often begrudgingly for the short time we had together. I start the countdown the moment you leave until we meet again. And I fool myself. Yes I do. I tell myself next year will be longer. It's better that way.
So until we meet again, my tricky little fellow, I'll bask in your glow. Be well and be warm.