You would have enjoyed this morning. It wouldn’t have made any difference, front yard or back. You would have enjoyed it. Enjoyed the birdsong. Enjoyed the greenery. Enjoyed the wildflowers. Enjoyed the breeze.
You would have sung back to the Wrens in the Cedar Elms. You would have thanked the overcast sky holding the heat of summer at bay. And although our definition of the 70+-degree morning and the oncoming 80+-degree temperatures would have hardly qualified for you as a cool spring day, you would have been outside from morning until the sun went down.
It’s hard to know where you might have chosen to sit. In front, you might have basked in the glory of the wildflowers making our once-conventional suburban lawn a miniature wilderness. In the back, you might have listened to the Wren and the Cardinal and the Titmouse in the distance. You might have commented on the various varieties of Salvia blossoming in purple. And you might have spoken to the squirrel drinking from the birdbath on the stump where the Ash tree used to grow.
Over the years that you came down from the north, our springtimes didn’t cooperate much. One year it was too hot, another too cold. One year it was too dry, another too wet. Although there was that spring in 1991 when you came with Nani and Bunka and we all wandered in the Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrush. That was a good spring. This one is too.
You would have loved it.