And here we are, another day has dawned. The sun is high in the sky.
The transformation from deep winter to almost summer could not have been more drastic.
It happens every year I know, yet, this year, I don’t know how to feel about all the leaves that have suddenly sprouted and covered all the branches and bushes in the garden.
Their young greenness feels like impish yet innocent children and in the past I have stroked, talked and laughed with them. But now I feel their exuberance misplaced.
I am not in the mood to talk to trees and plants this year, and they should have known better than to pretend that nothing has happened.
But they wave and beckon for me to go outside.
Rustling in the wind their whisper promises of everlasting life.
I am persuaded at last to leave my room, to leave the house and go smile at the young leaves.
Maybe I am imagining it, but suddenly it feels as though Andrew is smiling too.