Growing up in New Jersey, spring smelled like wet pavement and lasagna cooling by the window. I was born during the spring in May, with the showers from April wearing off and flowers fully blossoming.
Since I lived on the coast, summers in Jersey meant going to the boardwalk and begging my parents to give me money for arcade games (I learned pretty quickly that claw machines are extremely rigged).
New Jersey is also unfortunately notorious for jelly fish. One fateful summer, I learned this the hard way. I was too young to notice a swarm of the clear, squishy sea creatures attaching themselves to me while I was swimming. I do not know what was worse: getting stung by six jelly fish, or having to get pee poured on me to “help with the pain.” In hindsight, I am pretty sure that is a myth.
I was nine when we left New Jersey. It was October when we moved into a quiet cul-de-sac in central Virginia. The houses had big lawns and kids I did not know. It was a big change from being cooped up in a one-level house that was way too close to the neighbors.
My first Virginia winter didn’t feel like winter at all. No slush, no plowers coming down the street, no dirty snowbanks. But eventually, it snowed, just a little. It was just enough to make a small snowman. Slowly, I started to like the quiet of the country. While it was different from what I knew in New Jersey, I learned to appreciate the change of pace that Virginia offered.
When I look back, I see how each season left its mark on me. Spring gave me peace, summer gave me joy, fall gave me change, and winter gave me strength. They weren’t just changes in weather, they were stages of becoming. Now, I carry a little of each one with me, no matter the season.
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