The water started tasting like chlorine last week, and I thought it was just the pipes in my house until I mentioned it to other people. The weird taste is everywhere: it’s in Cranbury, it killed my friend’s house plants. It’s too much road salt melting—no, it happens every March—but I haven’t tasted this before. My oceanography teacher had an explanation for me that made sense, but I still like how someone told me that the water tastes different because spring is coming.
It’s not officially spring, but it will be in three days. I’ve been trying to force it for a little bit now, opening windows and not wearing tights. I made pasta primavera with asparagus and green beans and snap peas and too much butter. It was a little sloppy, but green and spring-y, and that was the point.
Spring is coconut cake instead of carrot cake, and the weird synchronicity in English when I wrote down “flower” for my rough draft of this piece just as my teacher said “flower.” Getting that letter in the mail when I said it wouldn’t come. How yesterday the hallway on my way to health smelled like jasmine.
In first grade we learned that March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, and I didn’t really understand it, but I think I do now. I’m putting away my winter sweaters and taking out my dresses, slowing down my citrus fruit intake. Spring is that I wrote most of this in my head past deadline in a chlorine-y shower, washing away winter with lavender shampoo.