The swallows are back. All the old nests have occupants. Out in the garden the spiderworts are in bloom.  And we have a few bluebonnets. It’s a muted spring, however, the profusion of previous years is missing. The lack of winter rain probably played a role, as did the big freeze. The trees are coming in nicely, however, shade is in the offing all around the yard. Although, one or two of the miniature crape myrtles may have to rise from their roots.

Of course, the biggest thing missing this spring is my wife, and I suppose that might be playing a role in my less than rapturous feelings about this season. We both liked walking around the yard, seeing things come in, watching our plans bloom so to speak. This year it’s just me. And while the flesh is willing the old spirit is having a hard time rising to the occasion. But I guess muted pleasure is better than no pleasure because I have seen people totally immobilized by grief.

Of course, I guess one thing I’ve learned from having managed to live this long is that most wounds will heal in time. Those that don’t are usually the sign of a deeper problem. Plus, I can look right out my kitchen window and see the callous healing the big oak from a wound it suffered once. And death is no outlier. It will happen to all of us. So, fixating on it won’t change that, which is how one circles back, I think, to the idea we should take pleasure in the living and in living. It’s a rare gift, worth celebrating, while we can.

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