Snow in the middle of March. Across the street, the neighbors have a snowman listing contentedly to the side, a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. The plum tree out back has just begun to flower, so there are little pink flashes under a blanket of white.
Every time the plum tree blooms, it’s a silent reminder from a friend. In the fall, the sycamore out front holds onto her leaves for as long as possible, tucking the neighborhood in before she goes to sleep. Spring, though, the plum wakes up, and its glory of blossom reminds me of catching sight of it out a back window one day and thinking, I can do this. No matter how terrible it gets, I can do this.
There are moments when something else in the world resonates exactly to the shard of soul lodged in one’s own chest. The piercing sensation of not being absolutely alone, the feeling that all is going to be well, the fierce calm of utter knowledge. Those moments of grace, of connection, can keep one going for a long time.
So today’s a snow day. I get to hug my kids, I get to gaze out the back window at the plum tree’s silent cry of hope. I get to listen to a dog’s contented snoring and a cat’s deep thrumming purr. I get all the little things that make up home.