Spring is haunting me. You think you have it down pat. This is spring; daffodils and lambs, the pastel prettiness of an Easter card. Cliche and hold. Blackthorn blossom blizzards the hedge. Do not relax. Tulips triumph while cherry trees plant loud and lipstick kisses on the sky and spindly, yellow rape washes through fields.
Now, now. Bluebells crowd the mossed trees, gathering in shady places. I am used to city lands and tales of dark and streetsome terror when a woman walks alone. In a bluebell wood, you hear a movement in the crisp and wintered leaves and turn your head to catch nothing. You move through the narrow purple lines of nodding bells and think you catch them whispering. Whispers crowding out the truth; no one is there. I have always imagined bluebells to be the colour of a broken heart. Not that my heart is broken. Not now. My heart has been broken in its day like all good hearts. I think it mended. At least, its odd and purple pieces have been pushed back together, the torn seams sewn with clumsy stitches and it ticks on yet.
The country is full of seas. The prairie crops, grasses, bluebells on a wooded hillside move as the sea moves. This suits me. The feeling I have had most often since I moved here, is much as I imagine drowning to feel; the struggle and the fear. Driving today, I gripped the wheel as you would if you were in an ocean and held on to a floating, wooden spar. Some doubtless well-intentioned, busy, little body took it upon herself to tell me I am Not the Most Popular Girl in School. I am "the Mother who Blogged". This is not a good thing. I should know. The bluebells know it. As I trod water in my ocean, she reached out a kindly hand, laid it on my head as if in blessing and held me under.