It starts when the last flakes fall. A slight depression in the fluffy, white surface spreads out, branches, forms a rough cross. Then sweeping motions, back and forth, spreading the limbs into wings and a skirt.
Ginny lay in one once, trying to help it along. We don't do that anymore. Instead, we watch them from the kitchen table as they blossom one by one on the lawn.
"I wonder what it's like," Lise says. "Being out there, I mean."
"Cold," I say. "Lonely."
The oven pings as it cools. We sip our cocoa and wait for spring.
Rich on Capitalism, Culture, and Language
6 hours ago