Monte Estoril, 12 Abril 2011

Suddenly Spring arrived. The bare trees, their branches held up to the sky were gone. My window a Fauvist canvas for all shades of green, on all shapes of leaves. A domestic jungle of my own. A lush, gorgeous explosion of greenery.

This time last year I was in South Africa, driving through the Karoo, marvelling at the beauty of God’s creation. It was during that time that my grandmother went into hospital.

My Year of Magical Thinking is ending. And this greenery outside is telling me what everybody knows, but that, until that first time when your world shifts irrevocably, you never quite grasp – it’s time to carry on. Life is beckoning and the only way is forward - even when it's circular.

I sit by this window and look outside – I’ll wait for night time, when I can lie down on the sofa and look at the sky. For the first time this year, I will fall asleep looking at the stars, at the pitch black sky, wrapped in a blanket, because it is just that hot.

While still remembering how my Grandmother’s hand felt inside mine as she napped, I stretch out my other hand. É de quem a apanhar.

There’s a Portuguese children’s song about three doves flying. One is mine, the other is yours, the other is for whoever catches it. É de quem a apanhar.