We've endured a spate of unseasonably cold and dreary weather here in Nebraska. I notice when the weather turns foul my spirits do, too. Clouds roll in, blanketing my soul with heaviness. I feel like I've strapped a set of ankle weights to my chest.
I dig fleece pajama pants from the cedar chest where I'd optimistically folded them two weeks ago. Flip flops sit untouched in the shoe basket as I pull suede clogs from the bottom, pebbles raining onto the kitchen floor like gritty hail. I switch the thermostat to heat and lean against the kitchen sink, hands in warm cascade.
Outside the steamed window, tulip petals drip withered and soggy onto dank ground. The petals lay shriveled like husks, blanketing the dirt in decay while headless stalks sway. A gust blows hard and cold, rattling windows and clanging the chimes wildly in the magnolia tree. I dash outdoors, pluck the incessant racket from the tree and lay the Capri shells silent on patio cement.
"Come look out the window; I want to show you something," Brad cajoles me into the sunroom. I don't care about whatever it is that lies outside the pane, but I wipe my hands on checkered dish towel anyway.
"Look," he says, pointing at the top of the bush outside the glass. "It's a nest. And I saw an egg in it."
I climb onto the arm of the chair and lean forward, fingers splayed on pane. Twigs scrape the outside of the glass like nails on a chalkboard. I crane closer, breath fogging the window dewy.
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