Things about spring I always forget
The city becomes less insular. You walk more slowly on the street, head up rather than down against the wind, and you run into friends and don't mind standing around for awhile chatting. You can stretch without dissembling your layers of clothing and letting cold drafts in. You can sleep without wool socks. Your windows stay open at night, and you can hear the guys playing midnight basketball down the block. At first your dog is nervous about all the noise drifting from the street to the house, and marches around whuffing at unseen strangers.
You remember that grass has a smell, and that sunshine is warm on your skin. The idea of leaving the house after work starts to sound more like "Margaritas!" than "But where am I going to park?" Already it is still light when you get home. Soon there will be little ducks and cherry blossoms. Soon I'll have my own apartment for the first time in my life. I'll leave the balcony doors open and invite friends for wine and dinners with tomatoes and basil and avocados.