Vika’s birthday.

The sunny days turned into cold wind that turned into cold rain that will turn into 20 centimetres of snow overnight. Every time, we say it’s the last time. Last year we had an icy rain on April 16 and I remember my tiny crocuses frozen into whimsical ice sculptures. Which means that they are two weeks early this year. Tomorrow, they will be covered in snow. I had planted them two years ago to have something to look forward to through the long days of late winter. I admire their courage and resilience – the smallest of flowers, they always come out the first, into a barren and unwelcoming world, they bloom bravely through the night frosts, tardy snowstorms and icy rains. They are undeterred. Thank you, little flowers.

This morning I recognised the insistent tchiu tchiu tchiu of the cardinal and heard the goldfinch for the first time. My favourite song so far is that of the song sparrow. This world makes sense, even if the rest of it doesn’t.

There are stories from Ukrainian war that still haunt me, now there are the stories of the Gaza genocide that will haunt me. I can’t write the down, I can’t share them, I can’t forget them, they are mine to remember, even as they are not mine to tell. I wonder how many of stories like these my grandparents carried. The ones they never dared to share with me and I never asked.