It was the magic of spring at work. One day everything is dark clouds made of rolling thunder and the next you find a saturated landscape before your eyes, bathed in a gleaming sun that soaks everything it touches in a radient light. The sky, clear and cloudless, painted with forget-me-not’s. The grass stretched out and over my grandmother’s acreage with a new enthusiasm, seemed to have been brought on by the glorious weather. Even in the patches snow still covered, it burst up with determination, unwilling to let the traces of winter stop its pursuit of summer. Even the garden, though it was empty of any flowers, for my grandmother didn’t plant any till at least end of May, had bunches of life curling around it. Dandelions forced their way up through the cracks in the stones where the mulch hadn’t been laid, and a and a vine with leaves that looked as though they’d been dipped in blood twisted around the painted arch at the garden entrance. A smile crept onto my face. It was the magic of spring at work.