“the whole town does look like whatever hope becomes after it begins to weary a little, then weary a little more.” - Marilynne Robinson
The length of late winter took its toll. It rains now - grey and icy and earthy. We engage spring, awkward as baby colts, unsure of ourselves and mistrusting the thaw. One day we’re ecstatic, buoyed by the sun and melting drifts and sidewalk traffic, next we’re discouraged, wearing mitts again and fighting a north wind. The signs are there: the falcons nesting on top of Thom’s building, the visible shingles, shifting river ice, geese. Here spring isn’t green or pink or blooming. Here spring is brown and it aches. The river is loud. The people are tired. The city is dirty. Summer is birthed – the heaviness and weariness of winter doesn’t just fade or melt, it is laboured out of being. Summer is fought for and with tears, it comes.
He stands at the top of the stairs, his pajamas tucked into his socks. He grins brightly before turning to escape. Every move is a game, a teasing, an invitation to engage.
Sometimes he is wild. When he runs his strides don’t lengthen but speed up, so the sound is like heavy rain or tapping - staccato. In a race, his belly would cross the finish line before his feet and head. Instead of by a hair, he’d win by a belly.
There is a plant hanging over the bathtub. When I water it it sometimes sheds dark leaves. Later in the bath the leaves stick to him like leaches. He pulls at them and says “oh” and then, pausing, “wow.”