I forgot this past week that sunshine and warm days aren’t quite the norm for winter.
I lost myself in the euphoria of sitting on the grass and drinking in the sun.
And I forgot what kind of weather was lurking just around the corner.
I abandoned myself to the sweet mirage of springtime.
I forgot, like the prematurely budding plants sprouting tender green leaves.
I went to sleep last night, dreaming of an afternoon in sunglasses.
I dreamt of basking in the rays of the sky’s golden orb, of perhaps even toning down the glaring brightness of my white skin.
I forgot to check the weather before I went out.
I stepped out of the door, clad in rather inadequate clothing.
I was wearing my hopes for warmer weather.
But I immediately had to step back inside to pull on my boots, wrap on my scarf, and belt my coat down tightly.
I forgot that we are still in winter, that that season has not yet fled.
I forgot that gray skies are more normal than not at this time of year, that cold toes and the occasional shiver are to be expected.
Yet still I sat down on my bench in the park, a new book in my hand.
I had forgotten, but I was still determined to read.
And soon I forgot the world around me, absorbed in the lyrical fantasy spun out from the words on the page into a shimmering gossamer web.
I forgot that I had forgotten.