In Spring Breezes
I'm seated on my gray-cushioned outdoor loveseat. It's the first day of April, one made for fools like me and these three monkeys I call my baby boys. There is a steady breeze in the air. Green tree leaves swish and swash under the hum of the parkway behind the house. The cloud coverage indicates a storm is brewing. And so it seems, as we enter the "cruelest month", a storm is always brewing in our heart of hearts. It's a deep crevice buried inside, where love overflows but is trapped. The boys are playing with foam swords and soccer balls, racing up and down the playscape slide. They are free to feel and roam and laugh. A dog barks nearby; a train rumbles in the distance. In Spring breezes, the boys continue to frolic and trample across the already trampled grass. They roar with thunderous energy. Their voices and cries are inherent parts of their being. "Look mama, a garbage truck," exclaims the youngest. In his charade of existence, in this backyar...