Last night, I strung up the hammock we got in nag’s head last summer. It’s been on a rung in the basement all winter and other than one day where it was warmer than it should have been and I hung it up to lay underneath the sun, it’s been hanging in the dark, like butchered meat, for months.

By the time I got home last night, the sun had left the yard, so I took a blanket out with me and lay there with my journal. The crocuses have begun to pop. 12 yellow heads sticking up through the ground. I’m told the daisies will follow. For now, I’m waiting to see the green fingers grow hands and I’m watching all the things I didn’t plant, all the things I did begin to gulp in warm buckets of air.

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