i used to look forward to spring.
longer days. warmer air.

but now, each new season feels like a countdown i didn’t ask for. a reminder that time is still moving forward. without you.

your strawberry patch has exploded with new growth. some of them are already ripe, ready to be picked. this is the second strawberry season without you.

is that how i measure time now?
not in months, or birthdays, or holidays.
but in fruit.
in black raspberries.
in the peonies that bloom without permission.
in all the things you planted that still show up.
alive. repeating. indifferent.

you’re gone, and they don’t seem to care.
they come back, full of life, like nothing happened.
and I’m still here, trying to catch my breath in a world that refuses to stop growing.