Our fall was dry and our winter was cold. I've heard tell before that a long and cold winter means a good spring. I don't quite remember who told me that. I heard it in whispers tucked between run-off, running brown and running green, both coming with their truths and lies. Spring hurts, spring hesitates, it can't just rip off the bandage. The shad have made it back. I wonder if the river longs for their presence in the wintertime the way I do. If she cleans the house in preparation for guests, rushes to the door in anticipation when they arrive. Or do they enjoy a good ol' seasonal Irish hello? I lost my grandfather right on one of the first warm days of the spring this year, the man from which I got all my fire in a house of soft-spoken parents. The man who gave me my poet's blood. Christ said that those who enter the Kingdom of Heaven shall do so with the minds of children, and I thought about the child-like vigor with which he laughed and spoke and drank and the child-like way he took pieces of my grandma's homemade bread and fed swarms of birds outside while he laughed. I thought of this and became as sure as I was of anything that I would once again see him, always in the drum-roll of doves and the cold run-off of Springtime.
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