Boston hasn’t fully embraced spring yet. Sure, the trees are beginning to bud, flowers are sprouting from the cold dirt, and people are prematurely shedding layers, but we’ve still got a bit of crispness in the air. I don’t mind it—it allows me to don my caps and scarves a bit longer, lets me pull up my knit socks proudly and keep my feet warm. But there is something deep inside of me this year that just begs to take off coats and let my arms feel the air. It isn’t like me at all; I typically oppose warm-weather months in favor of the cool ones that allow coziness, flannel, and cups of steaming tea.
I guess that, on the positive, we’re getting the best of both worlds right now. We’re in that perfect in-between when the weather soars to 52 degrees during the day and settles comfortable around 30 at night. During the day I’m pelted with brisk air as I cross the Charles, and at night I’m tugging at my scarf ends and nestling on the couch beneath blankets to read (and oh, some great books I’ve read lately!).
The nights lately have been wonderful. I’ve been knitting away on the never-ending blanket, drinking homemade chai lattes, reading, and dreaming. We never keep our overhead lights on, preferring the soft glow of lamps. The apartment takes on a soothing orange cast, and it feels a bit like we’re in a honeycomb. I can’t say I mind at all. It’s absolutely perfect.
I have a lot on my plate today. A lot of schoolwork, a lot of impending research at the library, a lunch date with an old friend, some Pavement (for good measure), turning the heel of a sock, and doing a bit of spring cleaning. But despite the somewhat harrying tasks ahead of me, I know that at the end of the day, I get to cozy up in my little spot on the couch and bask in what has become a nightly ritual. I really, really love it.