The weather lifts.
Sometimes, it feels like a dance. Pirouette from season to season, two-step day to day. The snow melts and all the urban bears emerge from their apartment doors shaking their fur. Sniff the air, it’s bright with daylight’s savings. We’re hungry, our bellies slept for months on promises and now look at this world, brimming. It’s time.
He slides from counter to stove, juggling pots, chopping, slicing, handling the pepper lightly, crushing the garlic with the edge of his blade. Spices, second nature. I creep up behind him, circle his waist, leave kisses on his neck on tip toe. My fingertips find skin and he pauses, suspended.
I hold my palm open, our moments alighting and then with a gust or a twitch, flitting away. Shhhh, don’t fret, dear. It’s almost Spring, there’s more where they came from.
More of more.