The windows open all afternoon. Spring breezes freshening up the rooms that winter kept stuffy too long.
The sound of the chainsaw, as my husband cuts brush along the ditch.
The smell of sawdust and chainsaw oil brings back memories—my husband smells just the way my logger daddy always did when he came home from work.
My farmer on the tractor, picking up the brush he just cut—farmer playing logger, my beloved jack of all trades is master of so many.
The clank of my trowel against the gravel in my driveway-side “flower ditch.”
Spindly daffodils, tiny grape hyacinth bulbs, dug from the rich dark dirt of my childhood yard—now buried in the clay soil of my own yard, my own home.
The hollow pounding of plastic trowels against plastic bucket—the little shadow that follows me.
“I bowwowh Momma’s gwoves ah minhute,” my 2-year-old daughter says as I discard my gloves to feed the baby.
The front door left open, I can keep an eye on one daughter while feeding the other. No screen door back up yet. But we don’t need it today because the flies aren’t back out yet, either.
A favorite winter squash recipe is warm in the oven. But it’s one of the last winter squash for the year. Spring is in the air. We won’t be eating winter squash much longer.
What are the sounds of spring you’re hearing around your house? Does it smell like spring through your open windows? Or is it only the sight of green things poking through the snow that tells you spring is coming still?