It’s Easter; a day for beginnings. 

We’d both fallen dormant in the winter of our spouses’ deaths. But what’s frozen can bloom again. 

I sit beside her on the bench, offering a bouquet of dandelions. She giggles like a young school girl, then quiets. 

“I don’t know how to begin anew.” 

I interlock our fingers. “As the tulips unfurl, so shall you, sweet Ellie.” 

Her eyes twinkle. “I didn’t know you were a poet, Henry.” 

“Will it earn me a kiss?” 

She tastes my lips, and we make a bed out of dandelions. 

Spring comes for us that day.