The Spanish bluebells are finally in bloom, a month late. Coldest spring on record here. The records are relatively recent in the sweep of history, but still. For twenty-five years I've picked bouquets of bluebells on my son's birthday (April 3rd), but not this year.
Everything is slow this year: flowers, love, resolution.
Saturday marks the one-year anniversary of my dear friend Carol's death: a group of us shall mark the occasion with dinner at her favorite restaurant. My kitty -- who belonged to Carol, and possesses the same gentleness and sweetness -- is back at the vet. It's icky stuff. I'm hoping. Here's a link to the piece I read at Carol's memorial.
It goes on.