For years, she had dreamed of a memorable spring break. The day she walked out in a bikini, it was indeed, memorable. She was sixty-seven.
She found a photo of Max and another woman, dated a year after they were wed. She tossed his stuff on the lawn. Spring cleaning was good.
Daffodils push dead leaves aside, eager to get at the sun. Cherry trees bloom, fragrantly snowy. You welcome me with a kiss, in a tank top.
They told the little ones stories. “Four seasons,” they say, “we had four seasons.” Their little eyes marvel at the dream of spring.
Jim’s at it again; angry, swearing, ruffling feathers. I know it’s his tree, he tells us all every morning. Just wish, once, he was in tune.
All winter, our editors toiled in the darkness of their snowbound cave, their ears casting about for birdsong. Hark! Is that a contributor?