Spring comes two weeks earlier in the city of Baltimore than it does here, in the suburbs, just 12 minutes to the north.
The cherry blossom trees, the magnolias, and the forsythia, are full and flowering as I drive south to campus; it’s like a time-elapsed video.
The drive home, a few hours later, is a journey of reversal–from bloom to bud to bare branches.
I suppose it’s the heat in the city, heat trapped by concrete and asphalt, heat that translates into elongated summers (even the city’s autumn leaves hang on well into November, weeks after they have all dropped into the streets around our home).
Perhaps Baltimore–with its Mason-Dixon borderstate mentality–is truly more southern. Or maybe the city could simply use cheering up: One less month of winter every year. Seven more years of warmth in a single Baltimorean’s lifetime.
I just know that I can’t help but be jealous.