We sit outside, the two of us, sandwiches in hand, the cat circling our chairs. It’s almost not-winter, we think, the sky blue but the trees bare, the sun warm but the shade still sending shivers up our spines.
Later, we spend the afternoon planting seeds, already anticipating the herbs and flowers we just know will spring up, although neither of us has ever done this before. My daughter dreams of the fairy garden she is planning on making, complete with miniature swings and tiny little rakes and shovels for the tiny little flowers she’s convinced will grow from the seeds that came in the little paper packet she was given.
We dream, too, of the lake, sitting on the the boardwalk and dreaming of dipping our toes in the water, looking through to the rocks and weed and fish, waiting until we have the courage to jump in. But not yet. We’ll have to wait a couple more months, at least, until it’s warm enough for that.
Still, there’s something in the air that shouts spring, that makes us leave our coats inside and tilt our faces to the sun. Just like our flowers will, we hope.