Stepping into Spring
By Emma Schneider
Every spring of my childhood when the snow was finally half melted, I would go to the golf course near my house. On a sunny day, I would take off my shoes and run in the half-snow until my feet felt frozen. There would be icy water which would squelch between my toes in the grass, and the smell of wet earth. When the cold became too much to bear, I’d bury my toes in the sand of the sand traps. The snow was so cold, and the sun-baked sand was so warm, and from the sensations in my feet I’d know it was really spring. Leaving the sand trap, my feet would be coated in a thin layer of sand and I’d have to walk home barefoot, practicing for summer.
First Love/ Late Spring
By Siena Capone
My first Spring Weekend, we all dressed… ambitiously, to say the least. Not enough clothes for the still-chilly April weather, but hoping desperately that dancing would make up the difference. The event had a near-mythical significance on campus, and since my favorite artist was performing, I piled my hopes high, anticipating the date that we would all gather on the Main Green and open our hearts to Mitski opening hers. The day of, the crush of the crowd was terrifying, but I felt the lightest I’d felt in ages—not even the tallest man could smother my joy while watching Mitski on stage. Because it really was all it had been cracked up to be. I’ll always remember, in the days after, how two muddy pairs of shoes sat outside each dorm room in my hall.
By Kyoko Leaman
I think it’s the sense of spring that makes it my favorite season. Some ineffable quality to the air that makes those precious months feel a little lighter than all the others. I mark out my time based on which flowers are blooming: Are the crocuses up yet? The daffodils? Oh—it must be getting nice out, because the tulips are starting to pinken. Keeping a floral calendar makes the passage of time softer, easier to bear.
Even though I love spring the most, specific memories flit by like dragonflies over still water: unpredictable, shifting, dangerously close to falling out of the sky. I hold on to brief flashes. Sitting in damp grass watching my friend’s tennis match outside our high school, cheering with no regard to the scoreboard. Escaping College Hill for a picnic down by Providence River despite the remnants of winter chill. Driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway as the mist burns off the mountains, noticing the crocuses blooming on the verge.
By Alice Bai
The week before the pandemic closed down college, I was looking forward to the budding weeks of spring to come. It was a good weather day, the first breath of warmth amidst the monotony of Providence winter, but the breeze still carried enough of a cold bite that I wouldn't have worn shorts if I hadn't been determined to treat the day like the start of the new season. I went on a run with friends, something I never do, and afterwards, we sat on the terrace in front of Andrews and listened to a pop-up band ambiently covering Vampire Weekend from across the way. The world would shut down soon after that, but I remember at home I would go on walks by myself and admire that the flowers had still bloomed.
When Everything Aligns