Nights are warm now, or at least not frigid. Gardeners still monitor the temperatures, but relax a touch, assuming now that there will be no killing frosts. 

Franny regularly walks by the community garden, enchanted by the small sprouts holding their heads bravely above the soil. On this warm, breezy morning, they stand both brave and calm, she thinks, untouched by the anxieties that swirl in human minds. 

Occasionally she ponders the notion of taking on a plot, nurturing it from spring through harvest. At Leo and Allison’s place, they have put out a few big pots of herbs – mint, thyme, oregano, the ones that are easy to grow and thrive on a little neglect. Two old scraggly lavender bushes have survived all of the foot traffic and projects at the green house, inviting bees to visit their stand by the front walk. Every summer they put on a lavish display of deep violet and offer their heady scent to anyone who brushes by. 

Franny adores these little windows into the natural world, its cycles and transitions. But could I commit to a whole plot of my own? 

A gust of wind catches her off guard, nearly takes her hat off before she can clamp it back to her head, turn her back to its force. She takes it as a sign from the universe that she’s not meant to spend every morning digging in the dirt as it blows around her.

The sprouts in the garden beds shudder, and dry leaves left over from the fall mulching skitter down the sidewalk.

“Good morning,” a voice calls. Franny turns into the wind again to see who sends this greeting, one hand holding her hat, the other moving her mask into place. 

It’s David, out with little Penny in the polka-dotted stroller. The man who brought so much chaos to their lives just a short while ago, now a bereaved but doting father. 

It takes Franny’s breath away, how much can change so quickly. Why not plant a few seeds, see what happens? There’s no predicting the future.

“Hello, you two,” Franny offers. “Happy spring.”