Some of the older locals referred to this time as the “unlocking,” a term Willy found all too apt. As he drove past a small park and over a tumbling stream in Brattleboro, he was struck more by a sense of relief—as if the entire winter had been spent during one deep breath, held to bursting. Not that the notion lifted his spirits any. He’d traveled his entire conscious life anticipating the misfortunes lurking inevitably around every corner. Discovering otherwise—even concerning good weather—always came as a surprise, and with surprises, he knew stubbornly, you usually get bad news. For him, life was a guaranteed layering of suspicion, mistrust, and dreaded anticipation. So, spring—hopeful, temperate, and sunny—especially following a winter this harsh—became an ironic metaphor for his inner turmoil. Whatever enjoyment it provided he’d keep private. Willy knew his outlook to be dire. Years ago, he met a man who’d confessed to never having suffered from a headache—had no clue what one felt like.
