Three straight days of incessant rain and I’ve decided if there is a fourth I will have to consider building an ark. But the fourth day dawns in a shroud of fog and later in the morning the sun melts the mist away and the garden pops before my eyes. The daffodils debut and the one good hyacinth bursts in purple perfume, the vinca open their periwinkle blooms on a backdrop of green, and the weeping cherry weeps perfect white tears of joy.
But the joy can last only so long. Duty calls. There are storm windows to get down. What cruel fate has determined these windows must be heavier every year? And my shoulder that I’ve babied all winter is now under duress, and the hook and latch or whatever it’s called is sticking and I’d rather not drop this window. But there’s no one here to help me and if it’s going to get it done I’m a crew of one, which is kind of the same scenario as when I’m writing, I’m alone and no one else, and I realize I can do that kind of thing. I maneuver the windows down and carry them to their resting place in the garage and my shoulder holds up. My reward is music.
I take a moment and listen to our windchimes, those instruments of glass and wood and steel that play almost every day because the winds show no sign of relenting even if the rain does give us a day of reprieve.
