Snow fell last week, thick and heavy, and I wore snow pants to wade to work and thought that spring would never come.

It was gone when I walked home, and by the weekend the sun shone warm and bright and the golden crocuses in my neighbor’s yard opened bright against the mulch.

We walked again yesterday, up the hill behind the house where the bells on the Catholic Church ring out over cemetery that falls away below it.

We walked again and the sky was gray with returning winter and the trees are still so bare and the wind blew last year’s dry leaves across the road and I felt that no time had passed at all. It looked like the last time we walked, she and I.

And like then she fell asleep by the time we reached the top of the hill, and the dry grasses rustled and I breathed fast because the hill is so steep.

But now the child sleeping in front of me is a six-month-old, on the verge of moving and taking on the world. And the wind that passes is a March wind, blowing life back into sluggish tree-veins. And the geese overhead are flying north.

And the hedge by the side of the road tells the wind that nothing stands still for anyone.


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