It is before noon and the air smells like snow and mud and Sangria. My windows are open, letting in baby lush spring air…winding its way up from the South, struggling over muddy ruts and thawing fields…eager to make an impression on rooftops and on the residents of this community; opening their homes and faces almost reluctantly to receive the sun.
A new neighbor, once a stranger to me, to us…another fragile human walking this earth’s road waves heartily across the way from me and after making his way over to our yard, winces as he shows me his raw, open blister. The winter has rendered his hands soft and unused to outdoor work. The heavy rake rests at an angle on his shoulder.
As we stand together briefly in the muddy grass, we are joined for a moment in the common thread of sympathy, a discussion about the drainage pond behind the newer houses, the rare marriage which lasts over fifty years, his stint in the navy…and I am at last eager to be on my way. This fresh spring wind is calling me down the hill…over dale on this Holy Monday, toward the death of winter and all the promises that this new life holds.
