We take a walk in my favourite park—the one where ghosts of boys playing baseball and girls wrapped in pink toddle in and out of a building that’s no longer there.
Gerry’s been sick and to combat cabin fever we drive across town to the park rather than down the hill to church. Worship looks different in a park than it does within four walls but it’s no less genuine.
We walk a trail we once frequented but haven’t been to for years and, yeah, there’re ghosts there too. Gerry points out fat buds on some kind of bush and long, greening weeping willow branches reach toward the ground.
Later, back home, I spy more green in the front flower bed—pale purple and yellow too. That’s what I’ve been waiting for. Flowers.
Sunday unfolds gently with conversation, books, some of this, and a little of that. Gerry comes from taking Maya out before bed and reports light snow is falling.
I’m not sure if it qualifies as a lion or a lamb, but it’s March. The month when spring shows up.