Upon leaving my mother's house and the boundaries of the island, this was the first place I called home. It seems like an eternity, a lifetime ago, and yet I remember it well. The distinctly cold hallways. The trapped air, hanging stale and thick in dark, cheerless rooms. The constant groan of the city just beyond rows of windows that looked onto nothing.
I remember the sun only came through those windows in a measured, refracted way, bouncing off the mirrored panels of the library next door before shining a narrow stream of light into one corner of the living room. We spent our days in that corner, inching closer and closer to the window as the stream was reduced to little more than a tiny pinprick of light on the ceiling.
Then nothing. Until spring.
To know that it was spring, however, we had to look away from the window.
We had to stretch ourselves; venture out from the corner, out from the rooms to an interior space where suddenly, without warning, everything would come to life. Every sprig, every leaf, every blossom on every tree showed itself. The things that crawled, the warmth, the very smell of the earth - everything rose out from the ground to meet us.
And with that, would come the crazed, wide-eyed, dizzying, frenetic, inexplicable madness and uncertainty of the year's first awakening.
Let us begin.
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