Heavy sighs, and for these things: a list of things to do, many things, all so silly and small; the pulling on of my parka, zipped to my chin, usually catching my hair. It is spring, and it is not spring at all. There is the heavy sigh that comes with the blurry lines of being young- finding love, not finding love, standing tall, saying what you mean, being kind, doing too many things you never wanted to do in the first place, learning (slowly) to not bother with such things; marveling at the strangeness of it all, the passing of time, how it is we came to be at this place at this time, the decisions we made and the decisions that get made for us when we don't pay attention. There is the heavy sigh that comes with doubt, and wavering, and all of the questions about what next to do. And then the sigh, cool and fresh like early morning, wondering if it all could possibly come true.