As I write this, snow melts outside my window. It doesn't snow much in South Carolina, so when it does, I cherish it, because I know it’ll probably be at least another year before it come again.
Although the cold seasons are my favorite time of the year, I must admit: I've been having spring fever recently.
Memories of sunny days by the pool, flowers budding on trees, the aroma of honeysuckle, waking up to the chirping of birds, and catching fireflies in the evenings (you’re never too young) fill my mind as I stare out my window, watching leafless trees sway within breezes.
Yet there’s something wrong about this. Because not too long ago, I was sweating from the heat, dreaming of cozy days cuddled by the fire and reading a good book.
Why is it that, no matter what season it is, I am always wishing for the next?