Outside, April waits for me. The sky has changed from slate to cornflower. The smell of pollen and fresh mulch thickens the air with subtle scents, like a fruity wine or a baby’s newly minted skin. I try to wake from my mental slumber to notice it all. I await the growth of my just-planted garden. Meanwhile, my father fades away with his windows open to the air. He nibbles and stumbles, smiling but confused. I think of winter as the time of death, when everyone who’s left me has chosen to go. But my father defies the rules, as always. He’ll be planted in spring, with ashes nourishing the new baby ferns. Each year, we’ll visit his grave while above us birds call to their new mates. We’ll return home and eat fresh strawberries, and think of how much he enjoyed them for breakfast.
