This time of year is like the sound of an orchestra warming up after a long, quiet season in the concert hall. The hint of violin there. The rattle of the cymbals. Faint and scattered at first before the cacophony that will come with all the instruments together.
This time of year is the pause at the top hill of the roller coaster. The deep breath you suck in. The smiling face you turn to the person in the car beside you before you take the plunge.
This time of year is fireworks in slow motion. A burst of pink there. A tiny trace of white. A smudge of green in the distance.
As humans, we like to mark the world around us. Break it up into discrete segments. This is the time of death and this is the time of birth, though both of these things take hours and days and years. We pretend there is one moment when you pass over from one to the other instead of the long process of becoming.
This is the first day of spring. This is the last day of winter.
This time of year is becoming.