It snowed last Wednesday. Big wet clumps floated down, blanketing our hellebores, their full fuchsia faces turned up to the clouds as if to say, “Go ahead, test us.”
“Has it always snowed this much in April?” I asked Jay, glancing out the window, not waiting for an answer. “Seems like it’s snowing more than usual…”
Jay looked up from his excel spreadsheet — daily he’s been keeping track of the number of COVID-19 cases in Illinois, his means of coping — and shook his head. “It always snows in April, babe.”
“Yes I know, but I don’t remember this much!” I remarked, turning to protest. But Jay was already back in excel, consumed by the numbers.
The only thing I was tracking as of late was the view from our bay window — our flower beds, now decked in snow, the emptiness of the street, new buds poking out from our tree. So consumed was I with my busy life last spring I never stopped to notice the tree buds’ gentle unfurling.
I was noticing my son more too. He’s three, an age marked by darling utterances (“You are my best friend, Mommy!”) and searing attitude (“Mommy, you are being too loud!”). What a privilege to know the minutiae of his days. To see each breakthrough and breakdown. To watch him grow in slow motion. This is what I remind myself when my anger bubbles over. The federal money’s out and Jay’s small business loan application hasn’t been approved. People have been acting careless. Not enough has been done to protect front-line workers. Then there’s the widespread death and job loss. Feeling helpless.
Jay’s spreadsheet suggests we’re beginning to bend the curve. Yet I wonder, how long will this season last? And how can I taste sweetness alongside so much bitterness?
I considered the view from my window. The hellebores are a hardy perennial, no stranger to spring in the Windy City. I know how to face the winds of change, too. You root down, trust that light will return and keep blooming.