Sitting Tight

    I wonder how my mother felt back in the summer of 1945? She’s 18 years old, and war is already raging on the Continenet due to the meglomania of a fascist  madman, determined to fashion the world in his own twisted image. I think I know.

There is an unforgettable beauty in this Spring day. I will treasure it, as perfect. It’s warm, and I am serenaded by a chorus of a splendid clutch of songbirds. Violets, primulas, primroses and daises are scattered willy-nilly at my feet. Above my head, the mock orange, and  Pacific dogwood are waiting in the wings. A few more weeks and they will shower me with blossoms.

I hesitate to spoil the mood. So maybe I won’t. Maybe, like my mother, eighty years ago, I’ll enjoy this day, and let tomorrow be.