We have been in the season of the solid sound of a heavy door closing against the wind and cold and snow. The sound of the sighs of appreciation of warmth. But  today might be 60 degrees and I am starting to think about the thump of the screen door hitting the frame. Other patterns will change – when something happens outside, noses will no longer press against windows; no, people will wander outside, drink in hand, and openly gawk.

We will smell the summer morning freshness and I think I like those early times best – the whole long day ahead of you, just waiting.

I must remind myself it is two months until Memorial Day still; and I must remind myself it is only two months ’til Memorial Day. Geraniums and spikes and ivy or asparagus ferns in urns; quiet times at gravesides. Trips to White Pigeon and Sturgis and Kingman.

You know, I think I’ll talk to the Kingman girls about putting something on our great-grandparent’s grave, way over in the old section. Our great-grandparents, our grandparents, my dad, their mother. Kind of makes you think about that patch of Indiana soil and yourself standing there.

Then we’ll need to go to some cafe for lunch and hear the screen door close behind us.