Springtime Smiles

Springtime travels from the south of England to the north at
approximately 3.5 miles per hour, a slow walking pace. This has been proved by
scientists and botanists, who take careful measurements of when exactly
daffodils and so on start to appear, and the last frosts have gone, but I know
it to be true because I have seen her.



She dances down the streets, while we are hunched against
the cold and endless rain. Just when we get to the point of believing that winter
will never end, that summer was a dream of a memory and the cold will never end,
that’s when she is seen.



It is usually her sunburst of golden curls that I see first, her floaty floral dress slipping between heavy woollen coats, bare feet
skipping between puddles.  The first time
she caught my eye I was stunned, her smile invaded my heart and warmed me from
the outside in. The kind of smile that is highly contagious, that lodges itself
in your face all day and spreads, person to person around the world. At first I
thought it was mere coincidence, that her smile accounted for the changes. For as
she passed me in the street, almost close enough to touch, the sun broke
finally through the mountainous clouds. The air felt warmer, and scents of
springtime floated on the light breeze.  People
she had passed before me were carrying their scarves and gloves, wearing bright
smiles. That is what springtime does after all. She brings a song to your heart,
the triumphant return of hope that the light shall return at last, and long
lazy days of summer will be back, if not soon then one day.



I have looked out for her since then. Sometimes she appears
early for her northbound journey. Sometimes just a little late. I fantasise
about falling in step with her, walking at her light-footed pace, taking her
hand and walking to the north,on her eight week journey, seeing where she hides until it is time to walk
the summer back in again. I build myself up each year, tell myself that this
year I will do more than spread her sunshine smile; I will ask her name, or ask
her out. Every year I tell myself that this will be the year that she becomes
mine. But I worry that she will vanish like a soap bubble if I approach, or
else laugh and tell me she is not Springtime at all, but a cashier on the till
in Tesco’s.