Do Spirits Cry?
I sat at my kitchen table one sunny morning a day or so ago, looking out the window into the snowy backyard. That window was new; a lovely and spaceous bay window David and I had installed the winter before he died. Looking through it is always bittersweet. Sweet memories, mixed with the sadness of loss.
Hedges surrounding our deck were laden with snow. There were no birds. A few icicles hung from the roof, but not many.
I have tulip bulbs sprouting in a glass dish on the window sill. The cat was curled up on a kitchen chair, lazing away in the warm February sunshine. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year and some of the snow was melting. I turned my face to the morning sun and began a conversation with David as I usually do.
Movement caught my eye on the window pane.
It was a lone drop of water, glistening in the sun. It sat there for a second or two, then slowly made its way down the glass, like a tear drop running down somebody's cheek.
Hedges surrounding our deck were laden with snow. There were no birds. A few icicles hung from the roof, but not many.
I have tulip bulbs sprouting in a glass dish on the window sill. The cat was curled up on a kitchen chair, lazing away in the warm February sunshine. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year and some of the snow was melting. I turned my face to the morning sun and began a conversation with David as I usually do.
Movement caught my eye on the window pane.
It was a lone drop of water, glistening in the sun. It sat there for a second or two, then slowly made its way down the glass, like a tear drop running down somebody's cheek.
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