Trekhprudny Lane

Spring? Still afraid to trust, though the sun is shining brilliantly, and I left my down coat in the foyer this morning (even took off my sweater on the sunny side of the park). I passed a brave young woman wearing espadrilles (and a wool jacket). A man with a squeegee and a sloppy bucket is hanging from a rope outside the window. Pigeons are gorging on grass seed in the tiny plots of freshly overturned earth before each apartment bloc. I love that mental adjustment we must make each spring and fall, when all the windows are either thrown open or sealed up for the season: the acoustics in the apartment change, and home sounds are unfamiliar for a day or two.

A. stepped outside this morning as royally as if the credit for this mild weather were all his. He is first to lose his coat each year, and then insists impatiently and with characteristic hyperbole that if the rest of us do not leave our scarves and jackets at home, we will "roast," "hate it," "be super uncomfortable," etc. He freezes defiantly for a few weeks, and then basks in triumph once the weather catches up to his expectations. That's today. (I was thinking in bed last night about his irrepressible cheerfulness. "He always thinks it will be easy," I thought accusingly. "Then when it's not, and it's usually not, he just keeps going." But why demand from him an acknowledgment that things are often more difficult than he promised? I'm darn lucky to have an optimist around.