I stand with a hand on the slopes, and nose an inch from the ground. The small raised plätten grass is located right near the sidewalk, but no people visible.
The last few days I have been obsessed with one thing: spring. We met a few blessed hours two weeks ago and now I can't think of anything else.
I will, looking for evidence in social media and will be fnissig and flinig as soon as spring comes. Blushing a little bit. I have gone around with halvkorta pants and ridiculous hälstrumpor to catch the spring attention.
But the interest forgone. Spring has been toying with my feelings, and then pulled to the south. I will be black inside when my family in Skåne tells about the hint of green buds on the trees, while I struggle on with my bare shins – in a snowstorm. Unseen.
fallen so low, literally, that I choose to run down the nose in frozen moss in search of a single doftförnimmelse of any vårliknande. It is minus two degrees, but my väderapp says it feels like minus seven. Shame heats, but not enough for any naturdoft to break through the frost.
I rise up and walk on. The hope is the last to leave it with hälstrumpor.
Amanda Lindholm is a reporter at the daily News, and has, in addition to in contact with the spring, relatively healthy relationships. Also, read her chronicle about the challenges of seeking affirmation in an app .