It wasn’t a decision.
The bacon was on the counter. The coffee was in your hand. The door was open because someone had let the dog out, or maybe just because it was finally warm enough to leave it that way.
And you just went.
Bare feet on the step. Sun on your face. One piece of bacon, eaten standing in the yard like that was always the plan.
It wasn’t.
This is how May works in the North Country. It doesn’t arrive with intention. There was no calendar notification that saying the season has changed, adjust accordingly. Just a door left open and a quiet pull toward it. You follow. You don’t even notice you’re doing it until you’re already out there, coffee cooling slightly, barefoot on ground that was frozen solid four weeks ago, and you stop.
You actually stop.
Because something is different and your body figured it out before your brain did.
The sun hits the back of your neck. You take another piece of bacon. You don’t go back inside for a few minutes, and those few minutes are the best part of the morning.
Here’s the thing no one says about New England winters: they don’t just take the warmth. For most, the daily habit of being outside disappears – slowly and without asking. By February, you’re not even thinking about it anymore. You’ve adjusted. You’re fine. You run from the car to the door and that’s just life now.
And then May comes. Not loudly. Not with a parade.
Just the sun, softly doing that thing it does.
You forgot this was something you did. You forgot how good it felt to just stand in your yard for no reason.
The coffee is good out here. The bacon is better.
Nothing is planned. Everything is right.
