April does her thing; a muddy patch here, a small pink hyacinth there. As I drive away from the house in the early morning hours, I notice a huge goose standing on my roof. I’m not sure why he is there. Perhaps he listens for the lilting sounds of Billie Holiday from the evening before; the strains claiming that time goes by, as indeed it does. Perhaps he smells the redolent fragrance of thick Polish sausages; their smell wafting up the stairs and out on to the roof, where he stands stopped and waiting; watching.
The time has come and gone. Another season moves from winter into spring and I fear this large goose on the roof is either lost or confused, because April does her thing. It is shockingly cold this morning and it will be significantly warmer in a few hours. The ground by the edge of the house is moist and beckoning, desiring that some work be done. Two flowering Purple Prince crab apple trees have been ordered and are waiting to be picked up, but this is not the week to plant. The ground is still cold.
In the late afternoon, upstairs in the rooms which lie underneath the rafters and the light footprints of the morning goose, I open two windows for the first time in months and hang up some freshly laundered clothing. Of course I have a dryer. On some days however, I prefer the motion of lifting and hanging and smoothing my hands over the cloth; making sure it is perfect. It takes time. Of course it takes time. But the joy is in the process and it settles my mind.
There awaits almond coffee with heavy cream and honey, along with cherry cordial cake for an afternoon snack. There might also be thick slices of potato cheddar chive toast with squares of real butter. This life is too short for bad coffee, plain oatmeal and rooms where the windows are never opened.
There will be days for plain things but not today; not while April does her thing and not for a home where a large goose takes a pause to stand on my roof to watch for songs, to smell sausage, to look toward Lake Ontario where the rest of the early spring geese have already gone…
690 Saint Paul 