That cold April morning something incredibly unusual happened. I was exhausted, as nights and days gathered in one thick, dark and cold ball. Winter, that this year didn't end with February, not even with March, and continued its determined actions had always been severe. I was desperately searching for energy, inspiration and an extra hour of sleep. I couldn't wait for longer days and fresh spring mornings. However, that morning, leaving the car, being in the most bitter spirit condition, I felt something unusual. The snow was falling as light as a few days ago. The temperature was 20 degrees below zero. There was no sign for an earlier sunset, but a lonely Morning Star on the East side of the sky. Everything was exactly the same as yesterday, and the day before, yet the air changed.
The air was no longer dense. It was as light as only spring air can be. I tried to catch it into my lungs but couldn't. After breathing cold, heavy, unpleasant winter air, this one felt like nothing. It was just there; hanging, smelling like spring. Not like the one we are used to in the middle of April. This one was only hinting on spring arriving. It was like a telegram "Will Be There Two Weeks Earlier Dot". It was like a love letter, and like absolute hope. It smelled sweet, fresh, and no snow could beat that scent.
I stopped in the middle of a foggy parkade. It was an unusual act for me. Winter has always made me run. Run, to warm up. Run into the building. Run; otherwise, you will freeze in your thin leather boots.
On the contrary, spring is doing the opposite to me. I slow down. Like never before (because winter always feels like an infinity), and every year it repeats all over again. When spring lets me know about an early arrival, I slow down and just stand, no matter where, in the middle of a frosted universe, breathing light, utterly new air. The air that will soon turn into scents of wet ground in parks, blooming tulips, pads of melting snow, and a first warm rain that will not freeze overnight. It will turn into inspiration. Frankly speaking, after such a telegram from spring, no possible cold will be able to beat all preparations for a blooming season. The door to the patio will be opening every day to check the level of melted snow. Light Rosé will be cooling off in the fridge and waiting to be poured into a crystal glass. It will be drunk on the patio with a floor that will smell like wood and rain. No cold will be able to beat floral dresses that will be taken from the top shelve and will be hung on brown wood hangers again. One of them is dusty lavender; another one is a polka dot, and the third and favourite, after the floral one, of course, is the yellow linen dress.
You will see my brown leather boots walking again on fields in absolute excitement. Dancing, perhaps. My nose will be moving, trying to catch all notes, and spices that are coming from the black ground. Steps will be light as if they have no gravitation underneath. Wind, amazingly natural and crispy, will be playing with my short blond hair. Patios will be open again, for occasions like "To celebrate life and that lavender dress." Streets will be filled with colours, and don't even get me started on blooming trees around the Legislature Grounds.
I sighed. I breathed the air again and believed. I believed the telegram that was brought to me through the cold and blowing snow, precisely when I needed it the most.