Nothing like an early walk on an exquisite spring morning to generate the big questions in life . . .
Why can’t I pick trilliums? It was illegal when I was a child; is it still?
Was that deer flirting with me? Was she following me? Was she as interested in me as I was in her? Why is her tail white? Why can’t my iPhone camera keep up?
How much does a sailboat like that cost?!
Who will live in Mr. C’s little place, now that he’s gone? Will they grow tomatoes, too?
Why does my cat sit placidly and purr when we stick a big needle under his skin and deliver fluids and then bite me, hard, when I clip his toenails?
And a related question: Why can’t I drink alcohol while on antibiotics?
Where does that lilac smell come from? How can it be so poignant and nostalgic and moving?
Which chore do I tackle when I get home? Which piece of wood do I sand and/or paint today? Which tomorrow? The next day? Can I just keep walking . . . and avoid the chores?
Why do I look so tubby in my silhouette?
And a related question: Which kind of ice cream shall I choose today?
Why does 71 sound so old and seem so young? I’ll ask my husband—he’s reaching that birthday today . . .
Where does the time go? Are we using it to full advantage?
How can I fit it all in, everything I want to do on this perfect day, and still have time to acknowledge and honor a perfect day?
Can I do this all again, tomorrow? Please?