Hackberries are the plague of my gardens. We live close to the wilds, there are lots of hackberries there, and lots of birds to eat their fruit. The birds visit our trees. Poop the digested seeds. Hackberries sprout.

One, true, beautiful thing. That was my thought last night as I endured another session of trying to stabilize a life destabilized by the death of my wife.

Sometimes, in the morning, when I walk around the yard or stand on the porch, everything feels as it was, especially on a Sunday.

It was a beautiful morning yesterday, cool and the air was gentle on my skin. It mattered little that I thought the air belonged to Friday. It was still a nice day.

I spent much of yesterday morning in the yard and gardens. Mowing, edging, pruning, digging on my knees. I took a long walk into town. At the end of the day, my hands ached, my arms grew sore, I tired.

Once upon a time I played the role of the stage manager in a production of Our Town. Now I’m doing it in real life. Previously, my wife occupied the role. But she’s gone.

I took my old friend, the ‘65 Gibson, out for a spin last night, new strings and all. A picker’s circle, which has to be one of the best inventions of all time.

I forgot to take out the trash yesterday. That never happened when my wife was alive. Even when her brain went wonky, the schedule was still there.

Had a fine day yesterday. Wrote a bit. Did some website work. Played a little golf.

Here we are. Another day another dollar. Can’t tell whether the latter is coming or going. Probably going. That pretty much defines retirement and fixed incomes.

On Monday, they play the finals. A Baptist school will play a Catholic school for the national title, and I still remember when John F. Kennedy had to convince a group of Protestant ministers it would be okay to elect a Catholic president.

The front flower beds flanking the drive are now trim and neat. The cactus is gone, twist leaf yuccas, sotol, and Sage have the stage all to themselves.

The swallows are back. All the old nests have occupants. Out in the garden the spiderworts are in bloom. And we have a few bluebonnets. It’s a muted spring, however, the profusion of previous years is missing.

It feels strange sitting down to write at 11:30 when I normally wrap things up by 6:30 or seven, but here we are, nearly noon.

It has started. At first it was a trickle. Now, its more or less a steady stream. The clothes of my departed wife are leaving. Hardly of their own volition, of course.

It’s possible, even, to imagine the tree thinking. Shutting down it’s systems when the cold hit, pulling back, going into survival mode. Making decisions. Moving energy here and there.

What a week it was. Or maybe two. Full of anxiety and anticipation, both good and bad.

Every spring is a watching game. The weather warms, the cool winds blow, the rains fall. As they do, I start watching the plants for signs of resurrection.

Roots. You put them down, you dig them up. They run deep. My two cacti, for instance, were happy where they lived. They put down some serious roots.

The front flowerbeds flanking the driveway entrance to our home are transformed. Gone are the spineless cactus. Laid low by the freeze, I cut them down and dug them up.