The song of the pinkletink

This is the third blog post I have started to write today. Nothing is coming out right. Everything is vague, devoid of the detail that makes blogs and writing in general fun to read. But I guess that’s how life has been lately – too many questions and very few answers.

I’m supposed to be on vacation right now. I’m supposed to be lying in a lounge chair, by a pool or ocean in Florida, soaking up the rays and the happy-making Vitamin D, catching up on some fantastic YA fiction, absently deciding what cocktail I might order with lunch. But rather than weighing the merits of Mount Gay and tonic versus vodka and cranberry, I’m here at home where the gray sky is filled to bursting with what will inevitably be an afternoon April shower.

It is a busy time for our company, and a bad time to be away. It’s one of the many difficulties with being a business owner – sometimes you just can’t get away when you’d like to, or even when you plan to.

So onward, I say. My early intermission from the crap New England spring will not be this year, but April can be pretty cool around these parts. It is the month in which the island starts to come to life. As the crocuses and daffodils peek through the accumulation of fall leaves still littering the yard, the local newspaper becomes dappled with advertisements for restaurant openings, help wanteds for summer lifeguards and innkeepers, and college kids seeking places to stay.

Soon we will be bundled up eating sushi and fried clams outside at The Lookout, even though it is still far too cold, but because we can. Soon I’ll be smelling that first round of hot dogs and hamburgers to hit the grill that has spent so many months under its winter blanket. Soon we’ll be taking the top off the Jeep for a Sunday drive on the beach. We’ll still need to bundle up for warmth, but that night in a warm shower, I’ll be able to smell the salt rise from my skin as if it were already August.

Last night, when Dave took the dogs out, he said he heard the pinkletinks – tree frogs, to the uninitiated. There’s nothing quite like the first spring night when you can open the door at dusk and hear them peeping. The sound of it surrounds you, some nights so loud you can feel it deep in your chest. You are engulfed in the cycle; it recalls each year back to your childhood, and a feeling familiar even in adulthood, when the winter is ending, and there deep in your gut, you feel something, forgotten under layers of winter sweaters and wool blankets, left outside, buried deep in the snow. That something is hope.

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