I wrote three lines to the boy today, mostly in his language.  His tongue has several ways of saying goodbye.  I knew I was choosing one that seemed final.  I sent him kisses, and told him, simply, goodbye, and that I would always love him.

He responded, again in his own language, saying, "This has the sound of a farewell.  No, please.  Until later, my love.  That sounds much better."

Lent is a season of reflection, of stripping away and looking things in the face.  So I have not responded to him.  I will try to refrain from writing to him, as I invariably want to, and do, several times a day.  It is time to look this in the face.

On this day in a dying winter, life stirs, waiting for April, the cruellest month, waiting for warmth, waiting for something.