A pear, eaten urgently at the kitchen counter. And pistachios of equal green, shelled as if I were afraid of being caught.
The too-many dishes drying in the sink. The hedgehog asleep in what was once my hat. The child who is so tall it is almost like hugging myself when I draw him in.
The wind was fresh and damp today, mild. I wasn’t out in it. But I won’t grieve in advance for the snow that is sure to come, because every day ends with the forgiving dark, and every spring arrives fully, eventually, like a bride who can’t possibly be late because, after all, it’s her wedding.
Time begins when it wants to without worrying whether I’m in sync or not. We are moving closer to the sun, even now, without my willing it to happen: the snow will melt, and my whole world will turn green, green, green again, and I will delight as if I invented it myself.