You celebrate, that's what. For it is not snow covering the branches, but lovely, puffy, popcorn-like blossoms.
These lovely blossoms can only mean one thing: Time to put away the winter coat and pull out the flip-flops.
To say that the winter and I don't really get along would be a major understatement. We are mortal enemies, the winter and I. She hates me as much as I hate her.
In fact, I'm pretty sure that she exists merely to spite me. She takes such devilish pleasure in her ice storms and her wind chill. And she flaunts that ugly brown slush for months, like a bad outfit worn over and over until you're so sick of it you could scream.
I have never liked her. My dislike grew to loathing after experiencing the bitter wind and negative temperatures that make up a Minnesota winter.
My loathing turned to manic rage when, every year, Nor'easter after Nor'easter pummeled the city of Boston, and I was left to shovel 1,945,493 tons of snow, on my own, as the husband was always conveniently out of town.
And frequently out of town in better climates.
But finally, FINALLY, I am living in a place where winter doesn't linger until May. Here, the first day of spring actually means something.
Like, you know, that it's actually the first day of spring.
What a concept, eh?
I might need you to remind me of my great love for this state, say, mid-July, when my hair and I are cursing our other mortal enemy: HUMIDITY.
Until then, I will relish my love affair with the spring. I will sit on a blanket in my backyard, the sunshine gently warming my shoulders. I will look up and smile at my children's laughter, as they run and bike in the fresh air. I will take a luxurious sip of the diet coke by my side, and then return eagerly to the book in my lap.
Ah, spring. I wish our torrid love affair could last all year long. Don't you?