When I think of spring, first of all I remember the village where I spent my childhood holidays. Everything was different there - the air, the light, even time passed differently. Spring came slowly but surely. First snowdrops appeared, then - tender greenery on the trees. My friends and I ran across the field, wove wreaths and hid in the lilac bushes. Grandma took pillows out to the yard to dry, and they smelled of the sun. I helped her plant seedlings, and then watered them from a small watering can. In the evenings we sat by the stove and drank warm milk with honey. I felt like a part of something big and peaceful. Spring in the village was real - without embellishment, without haste, simple and honest. And even now, when I'm in the middle of the city, those memories bring back my inner peace. Because spring is not only about nature. It's about a heart that blooms again.