I cannot decide if April is cruel or kind.
T.S. Eliot wrote that:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Maybe I understand this. Perhaps April puts me “In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts / Bring sad thoughts to the mind.*” Color insinuates itself into the world once again and the air is sweet smelling and warm on our skin. Yet while I enjoy all of the sensory pleasures of April, I also feel an oppressive sadness. It’s during this time of year when I can most vividly remember what it is like to be a child. Remember the wonder of things growing, the simple joy of dirt and dying eggs and short sleeves. I can remember it, but I can’t exactly feel it. Not like I did then. I watch my own children now, living their joy fully, doing everything a child is supposed to do. It makes me smile, but I’m also reminded that someday, this will all be a memory for them as well.
So maybe April is cruel. But, it does bring tulips as well, and how could a tulip ever be construed as cruel?
*from "Lines Written in Early Spring" by William Wordsworth