Change of season gratefulness is more or less here. It's become somewhat of a ritual to observe the creeping warmth and the promise of spring. Habits resurface and doors remain open. We moved the table out to the deck and I sit there, my green glass bottle of yellow chrysanthemums my only company as I happily plough through work. Reinvigorated, our morning coffee won't be reheated to boiling for much longer. And soon we will switch to muesli, forgetting about porridge altogether for these months. We discuss whether there's any more meals in the comfort category that we'd still like to make. Yet we abandon that conversation at the idea that it will soon be too hot to think of food, and the only touch we'll bear is hands held under the chrome fan. My daydreams are of the beach, yet every night I go out on the balcony and try to savour that last bite of cold, even as I wince and reach for a cardigan. But the next evening, as the sun goes down, I run along the water with my jumper tied around my hips, the cool air blotting the sweat that only a singlet makes bearable. The tangy promise of mosquitoes is there, and I stop, breathless, to pick the jasmine that is blooming already. It's neither bittersweet nor unremarkable. It's now, and I am conscious of the child inside me that remembers the heat that will blow across the country as the day ages. My soul won't forget that feeling. These moments are coming.
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