Spring, a meadow of dandelion blooms, sunshine baubles in grass.
Today my body reminds me that while my brain thinks it’s thirty-five, I’m forty years beyond that. And twenty years ago, after illness, I learned a lesson of “keep going” even when your body demanded otherwise.
That same Spring, Danny came home from business in Detroit, distant and dreamy. He sang “Detroit City” under his breath adding words Mel Tillis never wrote. When he’d sing “I wanna go home,” it felt like another home, not ours, he was talking about.
“If you have some place better to be, why don’t you just go there?” I asked him.
“Uh-huh.” He never left.
Summer came then autumn and winter, and we had one of the worst winters I could ever remember with ice breaking branches, winds churning snow, and gray dark days we floundered through, speculating on their infinity, two wounded individuals, half of our lives into a wounded marriage.
Spring came eventually. Mountain azaleas bloomed pink. One day he grabbed my hand and squeezed. Something in his green eyes stuttered my heart. His gaze held mine for just seconds, but long enough to see not the expected resignation but hope.