It’s Easter; a day for beginnings.
We’d both fallen dormant in the winter of our spouses’ deaths. But what’s frozen can bloom again.
I sit beside her on the bench, offering a bouquet of dandelions. She giggles like a young school girl, then quiets.
“I don’t know how to begin anew.”
I interlock our fingers. “As the tulips unfurl, so shall you, sweet Ellie.”
Her eyes twinkle. “I didn’t know you were a poet, Henry.”
“Will it earn me a kiss?”
She tastes my lips, and we make a bed out of dandelions.
Spring comes for us that day.
