I walked by the wall calendar yesterday and remembered to flip the page to the next month. The folk-art print with a white clapboard farmhouse drew me in and I paused for a moment to imagine myself in that place. It is the beginning of my favorite season; anticipation. It isn’t quite time to start making plans for spring. Plans make me anxious. There’s nothing written on the calendar for the rest of this year. Anticipation.

I think we’ve finally seen the last of the winter snowstorms and floods. In the past month, there have been a few brilliantly sunny days where we have been able to enjoy the outdoors and leave our coats piled on the hallway floor, where they usually remain until someone gets the urge to clean. We used to have a coat rack in the entry, but I think it disappeared into the garage last year when we had the house on the market. I still dream of a well-loved antique hall tree with a storage bench and little hooks for hanging up our keys.

There was one day last week when we awoke to snow. I still refused to wear my coat, confident the cold would not last. By noon, the snow had melted and our back yard was filled with robins, their tiny heads tilted, listening for worms. There were flickers above in the birch trees, pecking away in search of tiny bug treats and I breathed in the unmistakable scent of thaw. The real signs of spring come from behind the fence in our back yard where there’s a potting bench for the plant nursery that adjoins our property. As soon as the sun comes up, we hear the tap tapping of the gardener’s pots as he prepares the greenhouse plants to place in the slowly warming ground.

Later in the day we see the bucket of his little bulldozer as he moves the dirt and compost around the property.  Since we first moved here three and a half years ago, I’ve had this fantasy of baking cookies with the window open, the smell wafting over to his potting bench.  I would dust the flour from my hands, arrange the cookies on a pretty plate and hand them over the fence, with a big grin, and maybe a note card with the recipe.  When I left my job, I imagined walking over there and asking him if I could record his story for a podcast.  In reality, I’ve never spoken with him.  I can see over the fence from the kitchen window, but I can’t just walk up and talk because the fence is too high.  I would need a step-ladder and that would certainly clutter up the fantasy. Then I would have to overcome the fact that he works with giant plastic ear protection, and there’s no way he would hear me.  As I continue to rationalize, I wonder if he would be allergic to the ingredients.  I wonder if he resents the fact that there is now a home behind his bench, where only four years ago, there was a pasture.

So I keep to myself.  I wonder if he can see me as I do the dishes, or dance around with my son.  Does he hear me call the dog?  Do the bird feeders attract unwanted critters to his property?  We have birds and squirrels and snakes and opossums.  A few days ago we watched a coyote stalking his land, ears erect, lost in suburbia.  I stay in the comfort of my home.  On busy days, other trucks arrive behind my house.  When the trees are moved around around the property, it seems there is a forest waltzing behind the fence, trading partners and then bowing as the trees are loaded into trucks and carried away.

Last night the sky was clear and I saw the stars.  I walked through the house, turning off each light, and through the window over our front door, Orion’s belt flashed and danced as I moved up the stairs.  It’s the only constellation I can identify.  I was surprised to see it at all.  The lights from the prison on the hill across from us are so strong, I never expect to see the night sky.  I peeked out the upstairs window, just to make sure it hadn’t gone dark in some kind of silent prisoner revolt.  The lights were as bright and strong, but somehow, the stars still stood out for me.  I will relish this anticipation and the potential promise of spring.