I’ve always been more of an autumn kind of person. Spring tends to promise more than it delivers. A lot more showers than I care for, not enough flowers until we sink closer to summer. Spring in California is just a formality. But spring in a place that actually has seasons is a tease. Signs of life. Cautious return to the outside world. Never quite sure if it’s time yet to put away those winter coats. Spring is often a disappointment. You barely have a transition from the cold wet winter before you’re suddenly hit with the uncomfortably warm humidity of summer.

But spring on a sunny day is euphoric. I’ve never been one to chase blossoms. Maybe it’s the pandemic. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it is living through seasons. Maybe it’s living in this concrete jungle. But with each visible sign of time passing by I find myself seeking out the ephemeral signs of each season the the trees, with almost desperate fervor.

Most days in spring I am left wanting. But some days the sun peeks through the clouds, the trees bloom, and I feel as one does, compelled to go outside, frolicking through any green pace to be found, stopping to smell snap photos of the fleeting florals gracing the city with their presence. Preserving these signs in my camera roll like proof that it happened. That there was, briefly, a few days of blissful blossoms and comfortable temperatures as the days became longer before we became sweaty and grumpy.