A litle bit New England, a little bit country

Tuesday was one of those typical New England March days that come after a pleasant spell of weather just to remind you that it’s still legally winter and you have absolutely no right to trespass into some springtime state of mind. Not that it’s downright cold nor is it snowing up a blizzard, in fact it’s more menacing than that because it mirrors your usual middling mood: neither happy nor sad, optimistic nor pessimistic, fulfilled nor disappointed, but a sketchy combination of all of that and more.

It’s cloudy, cool, and there’s flurries in the air. It’s not a day to look up at the firmament so instead you look down at the pavement and see a film of snow and small puddles that have formed from the previous night's salting of the parking lot. But there in dark water is the bright reflection of the veiled sun, shining behind a deep layer of thin clouds.

Looking up, you see bare trees coated with fresh snow. The scene is so monotonously monochrome that it’s difficult to remember there was ever any color there. And in the distance you notice a weeping willow. But it’s beginning to turn a brighter yellow. Still you turn away and head directly for the dark glass-walled building where you’ve worked too many years at nothing more imperative than a paycheck and the right to enjoy your weekends.

And watch your daughter grow passionately aware and graduate from college with expectation and purpose. Or write a poem that for just ten minutes makes you feel that thrill of creation again until you notice the obvious defects and know the need to patiently revise. Or go out playing with the Lady Beverly and discover places you didn’t know were still inside you.

Until Sunday night arrives, and the latest episode of the Sopranos concludes with whatever mood-filled song they’ve used for that particularly ominous episode, its words wrapping around you like some Johnny Cash lament that sounds like just more work to you. “There's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone.” But Tuesday morning flurries coming down is so dispassionate that I couldn’t care any less.