Six years ago I left Austin in the middle of April. I didn't think I'd ever live here again. Three years later, I was back and it was the middle of April. Today there was a familiar stirring. Spring is approaching, the mountain laurel is blooming but the drive down Charlotte St reminded me of who I no longer am. February through April is when I molt. I traced the pattern back twenty or so years. Changes come in with the blooms. It's uncomfortable and painful. Then one afternoon, something new. I was born in April and it happens again every year.