Hiding, but not Invisible

March straddles two seasons, a shimmery quicksilver month.  Much of the country is ready for the emergence of spring but wary of the calendar’s confusion.   Flowers crouch in buds on branches, hiding but not invisible.

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In an instant I am twenty nine again, just turned, and she’s an infant, freshly born.  She is a warm roll in my hands, gleaming in all her beautifulness, a face that could make the sun shine.  Four years ago, when nothing had gone wrong and nothing ever would.
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Nature sets an example for those of us who have a tough time with transition.  This time of year the amplification of new life allows for a way of thinking that encourages hope, and the rain that frames the next day shapes a darker mood.  It's natural.

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My eyes fasten on her, compass needles and she's North.  I can see the girl she should have been, hiding but not invisible.  Her face allows for a way of thinking that maybe the show will not end, that perhaps we can overstep the cruelty of this, that it is possible to plan for the luxury of time.
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I know.  Our loss is some gain.  We are unfortunately fortunate.
But we can't make sense of something that doesn't.
JEB

PS.  Do you view our blog in a reader?  Should we draw your attention to the new header?  Click through to see it.  So dear to us, those two.