There’s ice on the ground, steam rising from parked cars blasted by morning sun. Cherry blossoms have begun to bloom, along with crocuses and daffodils.
On the way to school Mina notices a plant that looks like a snowflake- a spiky weed covered in frost.
Ukrainians are being forced from their homes, killed by random blasts as they rush to evacuate. Thousands of people in Berlin show up at the airport to offer housing for Ukrainian refugees. Those who remain in the destroyed cities don’t have food, water, electricity, internet. It’s cold there, still fully winter.
Meanwhile, I search for houses on Zillow, talk with our agent, consider a plan for selling and buying. But this morning, my husband and daughter asleep in our cozy bed under the orange velvet comforter- they look perfect, warm, safe, and how could we wish for anything more, beyond the abundance we already have.
In a few days the mask mandate will be lifted. Masks will be optional at Mina’s school. She was five years old, in kindergarten, when she was last maskless in school. Now she is almost eight.
Things are still not okay. I don’t think they ever will be again. For years we have been living in a state of crisis- often multiple crises on top of one another. Now that our perspective has zoomed out, gone global, it’s hard to imagine ever being truly present in one place, and ever feeling again untainted joy or peace.
That’s why, on the walk home, I make sure to reach up and gently pluck one low cherry blossom, severing its stem carefully with my thumbnail. I pinch its stem between my thumb and middle finger, cupping the flower inward, protecting it with the curve of my hand. Its five petals are so pale, almost white, wrinkled like tissue.
At its center, a delicate explosion- frozen in mid burst- the tiniest firework of dark pink and gold.