We are still fallen from winter. Painted in grey. Clouded in weary. Brittle and stoic in our brigade against the dropping mercury. We are hard. And we are begging to be broken.
And suddenly, there you are.
I can see the tip of your head - peeking through the kitchen window like a mischievous child, giggles rustling through winter-dried branches, stretching for sunshine and green.
I feel the breaking. The shedding. The hibernation of ski pants and snow boots and sleds. The stirring of the rake. The dreams of a garden. The creaking of the porch swing as I nestle beneath the quilt with my father's newest book. The whir of bicycles and the slap of friendly games of street hockey. The clothesline and the scrape of sidewalk chalk. Robins. Mud. Rubber boots. Walks along the old train bridge.
And we pick ourselves up. Dust snow from our shoulders, shake weary from our hair and turn our faces to the sun. And breathe.