The weekend warmed to a balmy 41 degrees F. Some joked of breaking out the shorts and flip-flops, others took them quite literally, and did so. For the first time in weeks, sidewalks peeked through layers of ice and green grass sprouted from the snow. Despite rumors of blue, we were certain we’d be stuck with muddied skies of grey. After all, the closest we came to sunshine on Saturday arrived in the form of a bright patch of sky, as if someone far away, behind a heavy veil of fog, shone a spotlight.
Still, we took advantage of what we had–we spent time spent time in of doors with family and friends, sipping hot beverages, nibbling a chocolate linzer torte, chatting, and laughing. You know, the good stuff. We ran a few errands. We finally watch Rogue Saints and whooped and hollered when my cousin’s name popped up in the credits (not to name drop or anything, but Mark Wilkie, Cinamatography–oh yeah, we’re totally related).
And just when we thought the weekend couldn’t get any better, the clouds parted and the sun shown through. I dare say there are few things more beautiful than a deep sky of blue after weeks and months of dreariness. Colors sing a symphony; the tips of trees glisten like a crystal chandelier.
Sure, winter is far from over; they’re calling for more snow this week. But for one day we were afforded a glimpse of that to come; for one day we were afforded the gift of hope . . .