primavera.

Outside a blanket of snow covers the chilled earth. And yet, this morning, I was greeted by the chirping of birds outside my window. I drew back the curtains and observed. Two cardinals perched upon a long branch in the fir tree; chickadees dashed about in circles, finally landing on the yew hedge below. They sang to me, "even in the midst of winter, spring will come again." It is not as far off as I make it out to be. The ice will thaw, as I will let go. It is inevitable. And thus I must stop fighting the flow of nature. I have witnessed the winter of my grief in ebbs and flows of peace and pain, and though the snow lingers still, this, too, shall pass.

Now, I am ready. Ready to let go. To let go of the fear, and to fly. To leap from my branch in a brilliant flash of red and to call out to the past, "we will meet again, but then I will be changed." And not merely that: all will be changed. I will be a new person, and this will be a new earth upon which we walk. Well-trodden streets will curve into new alleyways, and familiar sunsets will take on a new light. A light that will reflect in my eyes for years to come, when these tears have long passed.

I am ready.