Sunshine is a gift.
Even with a sore back, I want to be outside today, moving around, face illuminated by the light, blinded by sparkle and white, taking compost to the chickens, pulling a sled, gathering frozen kale from a garden covered in snow.
Wallace isn’t so sure.
He drags behind, thick in his suit, collapsing onto the ground, pulling off his mittens.
I make my way down to the chicken coop.
Theo waits, curious about compost but leery of the electric fence, making dog-breath steam in the bright, icy air.
At bedtime, snuggled under the covers, Wallace wonders about fireflies.
“Do you remember how they light up, blinking, all over our front field?” I ask him.
“In the summer?
When it is warm and humid in the tall grass?”
But it’s hard to remember