Summer comes early in Texas.
By March, the weather is starting to become warm. The daffodils are already gone...they made their entrance in February...but the bluebonnets take their turn next, coating the state in a blanket of soft color.
By April, the temperature has reached what up north would be called "hot", but what we celebrate as the perfect weather for taking walks, going camping and planting gardens.
By May, the days are long enough to give those long, lazy warm evenings that promise to continue once the weather has grown too hot to spend time outside during the day. Those silly, bumbling Junebugs come out, thinking that their month has come. School is out by Memorial Day.
This will be our last Spring in Texas. For me, the wildflowers, the warm air are bittersweet. Knowing I won't be here when the temperature rises to 100 degrees, I walk my dog around the trails that, in the past, I never made time to explore. I notice things: a new crop of kids playing soccer at the park, a pecan tree starting to bud, a bright flower blooming in the creek bed.
All of the things I have done, I'm leaving behind. All of the things I've meant to do, but never did, languish like broken promises.
And, of course, my loved ones. My best friend, who stood by me when my marriage stumbled. My book club, whose company I adore but only see once a month. My hairdresser, who understands me more than anyone. How can I guarantee I'll find people like these in my new home?