Is April really the cruellest month? Just because T.S. Eliot phrased it so beautifully in The Wasteland doesn’t necessarily make it so.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
I saw my first daffodils of the season today.
I’m in a mood. I can’t quite put my finger on why April is hateful, yet I know it to be true.
The birdsong I usually love strikes me as obnoxious.
The bright spring sun, scalding to the eyes. The alternative, sunglasses, too dark.
At the coffee place, I watch the barrista draw a cute foam face on the latte of the guy in front of me. Do you make funny faces for all the lattes? I ask. Just the special ones, he says.
I wait for my latte. Plain old plain old.
It’s that kind of day.
Alice James, that overlooked yet so wise diarist of the nineteenth century, said: “The ancient superstition as to spring and youth being the most joyous periods is pretty well exploded, don’t you think? The one is the most depressing moment of the year, so is the other the most difficult of life.”
Even the luscious yellow of the daffodils. Save it for later, will you? Tomorrow, April might be a peach of a month.