She’s standing in the window on the radiator dancing, singing, and telling stories.
Snow is falling softly.
There is a park across the street and this morning she asked me to take her there. It is cold though, a raw wet dismal damp last day of February cold with snow falling like frozen drops of spittle from a bedraggled old white haired witch in the sky.
I didn’t take her to the park. It was all I could do to push the stroller up the hill this morning with a heavy baby in the sling and a huge bag of sheet music slung over my shoulder, headed to play harp for the old folks who have lost track of time. I haven’t. I am ready for spring.
So I will let her dance on the radiator on this long grey afternoon, while we dream of spring.