There is this yellow hue to the stone here. It almost looks like it’s been dipped in sulfur or maybe the color God uses to shade newborn chicks – subtle but visible, not like the gray granite that makes most buildings in cities blend into the sky. This is the color of soft life, as if the very stones carry stories.
Houses here are solid. The rectangles of my childhood drawings – two stories with two windows on each floor and a door in the center. Often a barn is tucked in behind – white if still used as a working barn; the patina gray of age if filled with an old car and the life of grandmother’s attic.
Today, on this Saturday before Easter, the grass is the green that seems too perfect to be real. Field after field almost glow with verdancy.
Amidst their mothers not-yet-shorn, lambs stand on legs barely steady. I marvel at the sacrifice of life.
Forget the chocolate bunnies and the eggs with toys tucked inside. Put aside the ham and big dinner. My Easter basket is full.