The daffodils bob their heads in courtly greeting.
A tree on the plaza is alive with blossoms, a foamy pink haze. The next day I see a juggler and young children beneath the blossoms; the sun is bright on the petals and the white stones underfoot.
How will I get everything done?
It's very good to see them. They behave in familiar comfortable ways, and my place feels more cozy.
At the start of the meal I'm not sure what we'll talk about, but about ten minutes in we're surprised to discover that we both write. When we talk about it we sound like two people who have both vacationed to the same wonderful place and are now recounting all its delights and plotting our next trip back.
His words come out in a tumble about gifts, toys, cupcakes, volcanos.
It's a sky-blue and pink-blossom day outside, and I'm watching it through a set of thick windows.