with the windows open

She decided she would sleep with the windows open because why shouldn't she?

The day had been warm—the first truly warm day of the year, although she knew the day would come soon when she would think of 57-degrees as "cool."

Not today, though. Today the sun had shone {and what a funny word that is: shone, rhymes with Rhone, and spring always does make her think of France}.

Earlier in the day, she'd taken a walk, and walking down the street with her were streams of people, flowing out of their homes where they'd been iced in all winter. Now with this warmth and with this sun, people came out: broad smiles, hi-how-are-you to all the neighbors, looking up and around for the first time in months.

On a day like today—when you can just start to remember the possibilities that abound in every day—it's impossible to not sleep with the windows open. To feel that edge in the air as you drift off to sleep is to feel that life is almost too much.

She'd been reading Katherine Mansfield recently. {That's obvious, isn't it? It must be obvious.} Re-reading is more like it, but early spring days were made for Katherine Mansfield's flits of sparkling, shining words that fairly danced on the page.

Reading about garden parties and days at the shore: it was all she could do to not dream of big houses by the sea, houses full of girls in pale pastel dresses drinking tea with men wearing ascots.

With the windows open late at night, she could almost pretend well enough that that was the world she lived in. But then the train lumbered on by, blowing his horn—and oh! She could hear it all so clearly because the window was open.

Just as it should be: open to whatever came her way.