In the Springtime

Hand in hand, we fluttered like two butterflies among the fragrant flowers of the field and meandered, singing songs, along a stream. No agendas to keep to; no schedules to curtail the pure pleasure that we took in consuming every lovely hour of our Saturday. With our picnic lunch, we sat down on a blanket. Later we lay looking up at clouds. Transported to the wonderland of our imagination, we named them fluffy mountain ranges, bunnies, sheep, and Easter lily petals until they morphed into lopsided bearded faces, huge white polar bears and cotton-breathing dragons. Unexpectedly, the clouds grew dark, and suddenly, we saw and felt large raindrops splatter on our skin. We fled our happy field, arriving home - two children, wet and laughing, just as the spring shower let up. How were we to know in the springtime of our lives that the field and the rain from which we fled I’d one day write about as metaphors for youth.