Maybe it’s the way all the world is on its tippy toes with forward motion. Green things. White things. Pink things. Tiny buds full of possibility.
Maybe it’s the way fresh air blows through a stale house.
Maybe it’s that my fourth grader is studying poetry. Poetry! And it’s my dear friend, Emily, and she’s so right that hope is feathered. Maybe it’s the way his eyes are stubborn with the belief that he just doesn’t get poetry but we’re talking about frigates and books and he’s just finished The Hobbit and he’s been to the Shire.
Maybe it’s the way hope does give flight. Maybe it’s giving voice to a dream and seeing my husband’s wide and dimpled grin as he prods the what ifs.
Maybe it’s that eight year old girls decide to make color coordinated fruit plates for snack.
Maybe it’s yard work and shovel driven soreness and the smell of compost.
Maybe it’s the way a five year old says something is bodderin’ him and toof.
Maybe it’s just me.
But maybe it’s you, too?