
If there was a moment when spring sprang, I missed it. It must have happened while I was out of town last week for my grandfather’s funeral, mourning his death while the earth burst to life.
Strange, to think that I was draped in black while the trees donned frilled pink tutus and petaled taffeta hats. Now, as I settle back into my typical routine, still processing a goodbye buried deep underground in silent stillness, the crocuses are sprouting from the same soil, glimmering with giddy newness.