It’s been a week of celebration. Then last night the rain came- real, deep rain- and the sun came out, and everything was that bright green of new leaves, and I remembered what it smells like to be with green things after the rain.
Last I wrote, I was tired of California spring. But let me say that all around the neighborhood are roses, real rosebushes like the ones the cards paint red for the Queen of Hearts and never grow in Wisconsin. The roses are big, bigger than my cupped hands, and some smell so sweet and some don’t smell at all and some smell like the tiny rosebushes my grandmother and grandmother kept so, so carefully around back of their ranch house in Kenosha.
(Oh, I begged my mom to plant roses! And circled the gaudiest from any seed catalogs that came!)
When the clouds rolled away, the kids and I played in the puddles that were left for us, and watched the snails wander through the front garden and found a city of roly-polies. I feel better any place I am when I can look down in the dirt and see things happening. And a solid spring rain is a good thing everywhere.