In him, spring

I scroll through my cache of digital photos looking for green, looking for spring.  I find years past—my garden, Chanticleer, Montreal, Barcelona, Seville, Hilton Head Island, San Miguel, Longwood Gardens, a sudden eruption of color by the New Jersey shore in winter.  In between it all, photo after photo, my son—better than any season.  He'll be home in close to a week, I tell myself.  Sacred time.  Never, ever enough time.



I grow impatient for him, and for spring.