Tuesday, May 7, 2013

And then some days are disarmingly beautiful. Winter holds us in its terrible grip--for six full months, and more--and then lets go, and we tumble into suddenly green grass and breezes riffling budding branches. Our toes, swathed for more than 150 days in wool, peek into the sun. Our limbs stretch up towards the blue sky, unimpeded by jackets and sweaters and scarves.

The sunlight woos us into wakefulness before six in the morning, lingers until nearly nine at night. I drove through balmy dusk last night in the small town we're about to move to, and the streets were full of friends out on walks, riding bikes, families pushing bedtime back to take it in, school night worries pushed into the cupboard with the mittens.

Back in the city, the ground-cover plants between our house and the neighbors' are pushing up through layers of matted dun-colored leaves, tiny and insistent and startlingly green. We have cracked open the windows and listen to the wind. The backyard, seeded last fall, is a shimmering promise of grass hovering over dark soil.

All things are coming to life. Later than I'd hoped, but just the same, I can't help but say Hello. Oh, how I missed you. I will do my best to pay attention, now that you are here. 

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