March is passing by in a blur of birthday parties, visiting friends and enjoying the company of some of my most favourite people. The days have been filled with hard work – endless hours of a steady slog, a thin trail of sweat tracing my spine.
The fresh air soothes me as I paint fences and saw through the branches of a recently felled tree. My hands are mottled with sap from the conifer, thick splashes lining the creases of my hands and staining my nails. There are bloody scratches on my neck and chest I don’t even remember getting.
It’s the smell of potatoes roasting in the oven coated with garlic, turmeric, cayenne pepper. It’s enormous pots of lentil chilli bubbling on the stove. It’s roasted peppers and aubergines lending a splash of colour to the world.
It’s the scent of pine permeating as we build a new bookcase. It’s the arrival of the cherry blossoms, seemingly from nowhere. Branches heavy with thick swathes of blossom in colours all too delicate for these grey days. They remind me of someone who I always thought was too fragile for this world, and I wonder where she is these days.
It’s a glass of wine in pyjamas, freshly showered after a long day. The sound of the rain. The longer days. Lager and lemon. It is sitting in the armchair folding laundry fresh from the tumble dryer.
‘It’ is the simple pleasures. The simple moments that break up the monotony. And I sleep soundly within moments, my body sinking into the mattress.
Sunday ticks over into Monday, into Tuesday and still the days roll on. Laundry, hoovering, cooking, cleaning. Lather, rinse, repeat. Over and over. Yet these are days I wouldn’t change for the world. And with these thoughts, Tuesday slips into Wednesday.