I come from a long line of spring haters. My sister declares, “all that growth, rebirth, and renewal — I’m not into that. Give me fall. The death season.”

I, too, have never been a fan. The audacious colors, the word “bloom” and its accompanying delight, awakens in me a sense of foreboding and sadness, a bone knowing sadness. Spring is filled with expectation, it’s all promise, and like me, it tries too hard.

My spring now is a drive on Middle Road, windows down, with crocuses pushing up through rock walls and moss-covered posts. It’s a makeshift stand with stacked crates and the promise of produce and hand churned cheese. It’s a cow lowing in a pasture with iridescent grasses and a particular warm breeze, that is filled with longing.

Here’s the strange part: I’m not sure what that longing is but it’s there. It’s always been there.

I moved to New England for the seasons, and my idea of the seasons. I need all of them. The thought of being season-less unmoors me. How will I mark my days? When is back-to school? What about my sweaters?

Weather, like landmarks, tells the story of my life.

I’ve been coming to the Vineyard for over 20 years and have lived here year-round close to four years. Weekly, I drive this Island and touch my markers, the yacht club dock last summer, where I mastered my fear of swimming and the squeal that came with it. The last gasp of fall, my honey and I on the Menemsha pier with its tangle of lobster pots. This was a beginning, our new love, savoring chilled clams, not another soul in sight.

Endless January, my son and I traipsed through wood and slush, spying a flamboyant cardinal on a naked tree limb. And spring, that longing, that expectation. I always thought the longing had something to do with recapturing a feeling or a time. And expectation, as unidentifiable as the longing, suggested grieving something lost, a narrowing of possibility, the realization maybe I’d expected too much.

I must admit, spring happened to be the unfortunate backdrop to some of the most wrenching times of my life — my parent’s divorce, my tattered marriage, the loss of a dear friend to cancer and the death of my extremely complicated yet beloved father. All these things shook my foundation, my rootedness to this world. This was happening while the forsythia with its screaming yellow hair danced in a joyful spring breeze. How the world continued to frolic just astounded me.

My spring is other people’s winter. Nobody expects much from winter. Occasionally, it will throw you a bone with a snowfall so dreamy it takes your breath away. But mostly, it’s a time of stillness and reflection. There’s no build up.

At this time in my life, kids grown, regret my wingman, I live on the other side of expectation. I live with the acceptance of my own crooked journey. I’m a dull woman with a soft spot for broken things. I am audacious. I live in possibility. I’m blooming.

Robyn Goodwin lives in Vineyard Haven.