I know spring is coming, because I can see the discrete little signs, budding leaves are all around, on the roses and on the trees. But for some reason, the start of the season seems disconsolate, as if that smashing big freeze in February took all the joy out of the party, as if someone died right before your birthday. It feels as though everyone is simply going through the motions, happy to be alive, perhaps, but wondering how they made it through, and is it all worth it.

Take my bird feeder. I hung one for the first time in a long time. Pulled it out of the cabinet and dusted it off. It’s on the Mesquite by the fence by the southern porch, slung off a branch on my neighbor’s side of the fence so that my cats don’t view any visitors as items on a smorgasbord. But no one has come that I have seen nary a visitor. The little feeder swings there in the breeze, alone. I’m going to end up needing to change the feed before it mildews.

Of course, all of this could be down to the generally gray skies loitering around this morning, or the chill in the air that’s a grim reminder of what we endured recently. Or it could be me in a dumpy phase. I’ve noticed lately there’s a decided swing between the highs and lows. I had a great time Sunday but on Monday struggled to find the joy. It was just a day, and this one feels like more of the same. Oh, well, I’ve known for some time life isn’t a thrill a minute, but if it could work in one a day, that would be nice. Or maybe just the promise of a thrill. Although, I know with a sigh, that it’s all up to me. I guess I better get busy.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale