Jeeves had fallen asleep on a lovely spring evening. She wakes from her dreams of the faces from her past to an unnaturally bright light coming through her windowshade. For a moment she believes she has slept late and the sun is well up in the sky.
But no: the light is the reflection of snow falling, covering the ground, trees, houses in a blanket of white.
Spring, almost a third of the way in, has reverted to winter.
Jeeves rises, pulls on boots, sweater, knit hat, anorak. She heads out into the falling snow, giant fluffy flakes. It’s cold, certainly, but it is not January or even February cold. Underneath and around this late, late snowfall, the air still sings of spring.
The sun has barely peeked over the horizon, but it is plenty light enough for Jeeves to walk the neighborhood. Soft, quiet, peaceful.
Daffodils bending under their loads of snowflakes. Clumps of snow shaken loose as birds land on branches of trees and shrubs.
Gentle squelching sound of each footstep.
A moment of suspended animation: not even a single car passes Jeeves. As if everyone has decided to pause and admire the beauty, white on yellow and green emerging from the grey of predawn skies.
She returns home, shaking off the wet flakes from her shoulders and hat, stomping them off her boots. Makes herself a strong coffee, flavors it with a touch of cinnamon. Watches the sun finish its rising over the hills, bouncing cool light off the whiteness.
I have lived to see this, she muses. All those years of struggle, and all those April snowfalls I thought of as problems. The grief and loss of the last two years, knowing so many who suffered far more greatly than I.
Here we are, here I am. I must be meant for something.