No time of year brings up memories so much as springtime does. And "memory" is probably the best title I can give to my life's major preoccupation. So every day of springtime is extremely rich and confusing to me. And so I hope you'll forgive me for quoting some Proust, who is the best on these topics and my fav writer:
"Many years have passed sice that night. The wall of the staircase, up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb, was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which, I imagined, would last for ever, and new structures have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are difficult of comprehension."