It’s a gorgeous spring day in New England.
The trees have finally decided to bloom, seemingly overnight. They always bloom later here than anywhere else. The early flowers are recovering from our last frost, and the bugs have officially awakened. I’ve been praying the bats will make another glorious appearance this year; they’re such good bug hunters, and so fun to watch. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen one yet.
January and February are such hard months to get through here. They feel like they’ll never end, and the snow feels like it will never stop.
It’s probably when I think about moving home the most.
Then a day like today happens and we are quickly reminded why that would be the absolute worst idea in history.
We live in a place that – to us – is magical. Full of the “whimsy” you see women gushing about online.
My husband is also quick to remind me just how far Oklahoma is from the Atlantic, which will never do. The ocean is where I ground myself. Where I recharge. I’d never give that up.
So, here I will stay, with my sweetheart till the day I die. That’s the plan, anyway.
The Confessional 