Mother Nature Knows No Vanity

These days the sidewalks of Ottawa City flow like tiny torrents of Hell. Looking out my 13th floor window, all I see is white. Muted, bloated, grayish white, punctuated by the occasional barb of a barren brown tree or ominous gray of some foreboding office tower. The buildings seem to cry out, "Flee, Sarah, Flee! Tear yourself from our bosom before we do imbibe you and leech out your precious spirit!" And so I flee. I flee from that window where the office towers pulse with yearning, reaching desperately while bidding me go, their windows glassy and dead. I flee to my memories, where magnolias perch calmly, peering down at me quizzically as I walk slowly through their shade. Where green marble and grey cement shine through bleak days. Where low-lying buildings in purples and reds collapse with laughter behind me. I long for the freedom of small dark rooms with old linoleum floors and poor insulation. I long for imperfection and excitement. I long for the humidity of melting snow and the hum and babble of bridges and atria. My eyes are lifting, filling with foliage and tropics. Oh can't you smell the spring?