When I was younger, I would prop open my window at night and beg my mom to let me lay in bed a little while longer when she woke me up the next morning to listen to the birds. The songs were refreshing and helped me wash off the layer of sleep that hung over me as they proved that there were other living beings awake and taking on the day outside.

I watched as the sun took on an orange, saturated hue and bled through the breaks in my curtains; the light creeping closer to my bed as the beams rose up over the hilly landscape outside my window.

Spring mornings remind me of lemonade stands and the smell of freshly mowed grass, all while bringing me back to the days when I was younger and fascinated by the mechanics of nature.

In college, I still find comfort in the early morning songs of birds, although at the same time I’m overcome by a powerful sense of nostalgia. The chirping of birds will remain consistent; so too will the intrusion of the sun beams on dreary and dimly-lit rooms.

However, all else that promises a tomorrow in life could change. A loved one slips out of our conscience, there’s a shift in how you view yourself and your accomplishments, a tremble through the world when a boy who never grew up was elected to the presidency, and the hundreds of other inconsistencies that have occurred since the moment I fell in love with spring mornings.

Maybe I fell in love with the consistencies of these mornings: how, even if my aunt was a part of the world one day and gone the next, the birds will sing. How if I made a mistake one night I won’t forgive myself for, the next morning the sun will welcome itself in and infect my room with a warm, loving light.

The sun, the birds, and the crisp, dewy grass know nothing about the ills of humanity and the wracking negativities that can exist in the human brain, they only know that each morning it is their job to wake the minds of sleepy humans and promise a new day.