When March arrives I know I am well into the new year. Even those reluctant to take down their Christmas trees and decorative outdoor lights have succumbed, acknowledging that time does indeed march on. The anticipation of longer days, warmer breezes, and stone fruit covers me in a thin coat of melancholy. I'm hyper aware of the passage of time as the seasons subtly transition. Another birthday looms in the not to far off distance. To be in the present, to savor, to hold on to what will soon be the past creates a tender ache.
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