Spring Fever

A walk in the park sounds leisure for most, a harmless recreational activity, but I’m not convinced. My girl keeps pushing me along, to follow a twisty cobblestone path stretching with a rainbow of flowers on either side. I notice how the dim lamps brighten our course as dusk unwinds into twilight as both of our unhurried shadows emerge.

Sure, sure, flowers are pretty and all, like she keeps trying to prove.

To say the least, I’m not easily fooled or persuaded, and most of all, I’m unamused.

If she wasn’t in awe over the springtide, I could hear her paraphrasing studies on the beauty of flora and how it can improve life quality, spark creativity and happiness, and all that jazz. Yet, I’m dragging my feet, with her soft hand in mine, and all I can think … actually, it’s even difficult to finish a complete thought… because my mental process is getting interrupted with … oh no, here it comes … Achoo!

I get it, the temperature is cool as we dress in hoodies, the breeze is subtle and calm, the night sky is clear, and the full moon is gleaming over Springland Park. It’s OK, I suppose, as I lie to myself just to support my girl.

My eyes are watery, my nose is running, I’m faint, and most of all … here we go again … Achoo!

I knew as winter was coming to an end that she had the audacity to force me to join her in an evening saunter in the park, which I find rather presumptuous. I could hear her comment something atrocious like ‘Isn’t springtime the best?’ I shout inside my mind: Not in a million years! I’m a fall guy; autumn shares all of spring’s attributes—the bright colors, the crisp climate, the harmony of birds chirping—plus that tickly aroma of pumpkin spice, which is far superior, of course. But, according to her, the season riddled with pollen and allergy triggers somehow takes a place on the scoreboard let alone number 1. No way! I merely roll my eyes and just brace myself as we walk hand-in-hand further into the flowery gates of immunological hypersensitivity. Histamine and springtime just don’t mix!

I can see that my girl is the epitome of spring, with a pep in her step, idle chatter, and a shine in her eyes. It’s more than necessary to suggest she has a case of spring fever. And as I continue down the cobbled path, staring down flowers as if they are enemies that fire cannonballs of pollen to sprinkle like rain, I also have spring fever—an allergic response to the yellow dust all around us, on our cars, down our streets, and on the bottoms of our shoes that we track into our homes.

I keep an eye on the blanket of wildflowers that surround the open field of the park as they shake their shuttering petals upward and the wind begins to pass through, it’s a relief to see the flowers closing off at the sight of me like I’m a notorious opponent, a force to be reckoned with. A large cloud then plasters to the sky, with the stars and the moon nestling in. Even celestial bodies just don’t have it in them to breathe in the inflammatory particles drifting in the air—inhaling and choking on exhale.

I’ll give spring this: It is, I must admit, picture-perfect. The moonlight, while it lasted, sparkled on the dew drops of flower petals and prickly leaves, and yes, I suppose, it was magnificent. Perhaps in this instance, I would be less cynical with a photograph of such rather than this in-the-moment experience, with pollen invading my sinuses. So, a computer screensaver is sufficed for me!

Wow, I’m brutal. Do I really sound like this when I talk aloud? I wonder with what I would presume as a look of retrospection. I seem awfully pigheaded in my convictions, why I am just realizing this now? Hmm.

I catch the sight of my girl running along, almost like she’s leaving me to rethink my position on spring like a scientist rereviewing an outcome of a pesky experiment.

As I’m wandering the path, and in the night glow, like a stage light, I see a bunny skipping on the cobblestone before stopping in the middle, nibbling on a piece of green. I unfolded my arms and halted my movement and held myself still as I could, admiring the brown and grey rabbit, fluffy as all could be. My attention grew to a small notch on its left ear, but it didn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest. I’m sure, at the time, whatever had happened to the poor thing, it didn’t feel good. I had the strongest urge to sneeze, but I suppressed it, I wanted to see what this bunny did next! I kneeled down to gain a better view. It merely sideway glanced at me, wiggling its nose around and readjusting its large sets of growing ears. I smiled.

All this time I was crying about my seasonal allergies, neglecting to consider the bigger picture here—and not just the photograph. This sweet rabbit, scurrying in and out of bushels of flowers sustains itself, living among flora and foliage, despite its healed injury. The little guy, actually unbothered by it, still twitches its cottontail like the notch is no issue, because he doesn’t let it get him down. Why? Is it because he is delighted to reside in the safety of a bed of tulips? Does it ever hurt him every once in a while, like how my allergies creep up on me every year? No matter how unhappy he is, I’m sure he stops to smell the roses more than I could possibly know!

Interesting.

I gape at the friendly-faced bunny as it carries on its merry way. I watched as he zigzagged to the other side of the path, diving into another field of flowers, disappearing from my sight. If, for one moment, I could overlook the discomfort of my allergies, I would see a lot more—not just my being but the vibrancy of life in general.

And these flowers—they break from the soil of the Earth, to reach the sun every new spring like a ritual of renewal. It’s a canvas for a new beginning because the dots of color in a meadow are never the same with each passing year. Flowers blossom and bloom and start fresh every spring, so why can’t I?

Achoo!