My daughter is awake. "Rain, again?" Her tone suggests that she, too, is tired of the gray. "I hate it, the rain." She sits at my desk with her coffee.
"We need the rain. It helps the grass and flowers grow. We need the water. You shouldn't hate the rain. God gave it to us. The trees need rain. The rain will make everything green again. You'll see, soon it will be green." I don't like to hear my daughter say hate. It seems somehow profane, coming from her. Too strong - too dark - too passionate. I'm not sure why I'm surprised, though. She is a black and white girl...
"Ok, rain is ok," she takes a sip from her cup. "It is Spring. My shorts..." My daughter is a summer child. She loves warm weather - even hot weather. Skin. She would wear shorts year-round if she could. Shorts, sandals, and tank tops. Pointing to her bare arms with one of her Sierra smiles, she shows me her skin.
"Not today, Honey. It's still cold. Spring is next week. It's not time for your shorts, yet." We had a beautiful, warm spring-like day last week. Sierra took it upon herself to switch out her winter and summer clothes (girl after my heart - they are hanging in order by color...).
We compromise. Shorts are out, but short-sleeves are ok. Boots, no - sandals and tennis shoes, yes. I have to draw the line at the dress she plans to wear to church on Sunday. It's a spaghetti strap number that worked fine with a Texas Easter, but just won't work for March in Virginia.
"I love it, the purple dress", she insists.
"I know you do. I love it, too. It looks very pretty on you. But, Sweetie, it's going to be cold on Sunday."
"No, it is Spring."
"Yes, it will be Spring, but it will be cold. You can wear the purple dress when it gets warmer. You might want to think about wearing pants on Sunday. It's going to be cold."
She actually turns her head away when she doesn't want to hear something. It's a signal. She's full - she needs to process. It's time to change the subject. Redirect. Soon she reaches for her coffee again.
"I love it, the Spring."