April 15: A very small boy walked with his parents in the cool afternoon. I guess he had been on the swing set because he toddled across the lawn rather than along the curb. Then he discovered our small stone wall hugging a raised garden bed, at lawn height: perfect for balancing one foot in front of the other. Then he discovered the step down to our front walk. Perfect, when he sat, for his little legs to reach the ground. Oh! A stick! Then back to the wall again. Finally the dad moved him along. But my pleasure endures.
April 16: The bike is the same, the route is the same, even that lady glancing up from her laptop is the same. But oh, today, the little girl’s pink and silver sequined jacket catching the morning sunshine — that is something very special.
April 17: A warmly lit room. A lightly fragrant candle. The overture to Henry Purcell’s The Virtuous Wife. A ticking clock. Gentle rain. Our yoga teacher invited us to begin class with legs up the wall, my favorite shape. Warm, grounded, fully relaxed, I knew lunges were coming. I think I’ll stay right here.
April 18: I folded forward, hands to the floor, and saw with surprise that our front door was open behind me. Happily, the gray chill discouraged pedestrians and possible views of my rump. Then I noticed my own view: the splendid green lawn across the way rose to the door jamb like a tourmaline sky. The maple, upside down, dangled its new leaf-lets of green and russet, spring mingling with fall. I was so comfortable, my view so surprisingly lovely that (again) I didn’t want to move. Ah, the naughty pleasures of yoga-by-Zoom.
April 19: Jeremiah and I sat at right angles on our sectional sofa, each folding our own laundry. Majka pressed her snout into Jeremiah’s chest, and he obligingly put aside his t-shirts to massage her neck. Soon Jeremiah returned to his laundry. Majka waited a few beats and then, tiptoeing over Jere’s folded laundry, navigated around the corner of the sectional to me. Nuzzling my arm, she waited for me to pet her. I dutifully complied. When I stopped, Majka trotted back to Jeremiah. Back and forth she went, until all of us were done.
April 20: Is there a worm convention in the garden below me? A grub tea party? I can’t tell, but a half-dozen robins are suddenly dancing and singing and darting up and down to join them.
April 21: I watched a boy and girl on their bikes pass the house. Ten minutes later, they returned, each with a long skinny stick resting across their handlebars. The girl’s stick was more of a stiff reed, with a flourish of ornamental-grass fuzz decorating the top. They disappeared from view. Soon, though, the girl returned on foot, carrying her stick sky high, its head six feet above her own. A parade of one.
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