David Policar 1995
The big tree in the yard was shedding leaves and branches prodigiously. It had been bare a few weeks earlier, after the first autumn frost, but two or three unseasonably warm weeks had fooled it into growing back its leaves. Now, the weather was returning to normal, and the new green leaves were tumbling to the ground and piling up at the base of the trunk, like long hair finally being cut.
Except for that incongruous pile of greenery, the yard was brown and dead, showing all the symptoms of winter. The redbirds and the bluejays were long gone, but now and again a squirrel would emerge from a long grey blur to perch on a branch or a railing. The squirrels liked our porch, which was a periodic source of nuts, popcorn, and other snacks to supplement their diet of leftovers. The feeling was, for my part, mutual -- the worst part of winter was the deadness of it all, and seeing our springtime visitors prowling outside the glass double doors that led to the yard was a warm reminder for me that nothing lasts forever -- not even death.
"Good (yawn) morning..." She had come downstairs so quietly I hadn't noticed her. She was still bleary-eyed and yawning , padding into the kitchen beside me and nudging her head into the crook of my arm for a hug.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," I mumbled, hugging her close with one arm and taking care not to spill my tea. She kissed me slowly and thoroughly, then licked her lips thoughtfully. "Mm! Peppermint! Can I have a sip?"
She frowned when I shook my head, then smiled again when I indicated the cup I'd brewed for her, next to the cinnamon toast. Few things made her happier than breakfast, and nothing made me happier than her smile.
"So what were you looking at?" she asked around mouthfuls of toast. "The tree?"
"Kinda. Just then, watching one of our squirrels on the porch railing. See? Still there. I think she's waiting for the leftover toast..."