Saturday I changed my bedsheets. That's really not unusual because I change them every two weeks or so anyway. But two days ago I switched out my flannel sheets and replaced them with my favorite soft cotton ones. There's something about stripping my bed clear of those warm, white sheets scattered with red and yellow flowers and in their place securing bright yellow bolts of fabric. I do it every year, and of all the sheets we own I always choose the yellow set to follow my trusted winter veterans. The yellow sheets are bright, suggestive of a spring nipping on Mother Nature's heels.
Every year it's a different time. I suppose mostly it depends on what day feels right, as vague as that word is. Saturday was just the "right" time. The air smelled like it does every year, but in a new way (were this iTunes it would be version 3.4.8, with only slight discrepancies from last year's 3.4.7).
Brief wafts flitted in my window and pressed play on the movie screen behind my eyes; I watched last summer advertise itself to me like a trailer. It was a nice preview but for a few moments I do not wish to repeat. Another breeze rushed through my room and teased my hair, shifting it with transparent hands, ushering in reminders of a different time. I was five, or four, or eight, even ten. Spring had an entirely separate meaning when I was younger. It presented itself as a huge flashing sign that with every blink promised summer's impending arrival. I'd proudly appear at school with skorts and busy sundresses, sharing my enthusiasm for the months to come with every other anticipatory classmate. These memories came with the air: abstract, not really memories, I suppose, in their obscurity, but then no other word seems to fit.
On Saturday evening, I scooted myself into bed. The sunflower satin that surrounded me felt cool against my heated skin and I allowed these temperatures to meld, mix, coalesce until I lost my sense of self within this protective barrier.
Today was cold, and I awoke feeling less than attended to by my icy sheets. Still I cannot deny the simple pleasure I get from pulling back my comforter each night and falling once more into this welcoming berth.