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On ice cream

 

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My daughter enjoying an ice cream.

A neighbour crossed the street to speak to me.

“You’ve had a dreadful winter,” she said, her voice full of sympathy.

I was at a bit of a loss as to how to respond. While it was happening, it was dreadful, although, lost in the details, I couldn’t have summed it up that succinctly.

Now that it is behind us, it is a blur – one long exhausting blur. It was the winter that wasn’t.  We went from fall to spring.

And that is how I responded: “It was hard, but now it’s spring so we’re going for ice cream.” The neighbour smiled and waved us on our way.

I revel in these moments that seem so normal. After our dreadful winter and uneven readjustment to home, we have hit a patch of routine, a couple of weeks of calm, a string of days unfolding without incident or interruption.

 When this happens, I wonder what I complain about the rest of the time. 

Then I look at my calendar. Starting tomorrow, there are appointments nine of the next 15 working days. No more routine. No more ice cream.

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