Flowers on Sunday Tell All

It’s too soon for hellebores to rise up through the blanket of leaves and snow, but they are ready, nestled between the trees and red osier dogwood, for the Great Melting that is only a few weeks away.

Meanwhile, I do what I’m told.  Green vases and wine-colored petals and – at last – sunshine.  And that is plenty of magic.  Maybe even enough.

I didn’t want to leave behind the things that slipped away.  But there’s no denying when you find yourself in a different place.  Quieter (door-slamming neighbors and screaming toddlers not withstanding).  Less fraught.  Back at home, at least in my self.

All the wrong things are still wrong.  My ghosts rise up and dissolve again and again whenever the sky rains.  I have no traction to pull myself toward what I used to imagine might help.  That fuel has burned out.

But I recognize this feeling – in the moments in-between.



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