I stepped out of the car into the brisk air and buttoned up my coat. After a week of what felt like spring, of people wearing shorts and dresses and going to the beach, it finally felt like winter again.
Across the street, a man was singing a sweet sad melody on his guitar underneath a black lamp post and four leafless trees, their spindly branches frail yet many like veins. The amp carried his voice along Piedmont Avenue and people stopped to listen. I stood there trying to hear what he was singing but couldn’t make out the words very well. I liked it nonetheless, I liked it very much so.
When I got back into the car and shut the door, the music and the winter air and the trees were all gone, just like that. What I heard now was the muffled sound of car engine and the rustling of the plastic takeout bag, and I wondered what the future held.
Sprays of cherry blossoms dotted the roads. Signs of spring were everywhere. I knew for sure that spring was coming. That’s all I knew for sure.
All the lights were on inside our home. I pulled up into the garage and decided to walk around the front instead of using the elevator. The sun was setting, and the tips of pine trees were outlined in gold. I lingered a moment to breathe in what I could, and then reached into my pocket for my keys.