I walk outside, barefoot, “barefoot?” you think, yes, we have had this conversation before, unless you are new to my blog, so I can forgive you on that score, the world is misting, at least in this little corner of new jersey, not rain, not drizzle, almost an imperceptible spray, more like when a wave breaks on a jetty a few feet away, definitely not from the clouds, or at least that is the feel, the perception, the world has been more quiet these months (the strange spring as I call it), but more so right now, even with the expectation dams bursting with excitement at the prospect of summer, beaches, parties and the like, but today,  more quiet sets the stage, I watch what little breeze there is twitch the clovers that have ingratiated themselves as citizens in my rock garden, I don’t mind clovers, although none of these are four leaf, that variety seems to escape me, somehow they have a better back story than most weeds, and get a pass in that department, the ground is barely wet, yet there is enough moisture to pool under the front of the car in the driveway, dripping, just enough, and not nearly a pool anything can swim in, there is nothing stirring about, the only sound is a family of birds in a tree up the block, arguing, about what I have no idea, but it sounds intense, but human sounds are absent, there is a solemn tone, or at least that is what I breathe in, perhaps this is more what this day should be about, not frisbees and grill marks, a solemn reminder about souls lost, maybe not every year does the curtain of this need to overshadow and dampen spirits, but perhaps there is merit in this, for at least sometimes, to remind us to reflect, stay inside our comfort, not rejoice in the shining sun unrelated to the meaning of the day, for we are here as surrogates to those who are not, those before paved the way for this day to even rise, so take a moment, and thank them in your thoughts, for a gift, the gift you unwrapped long ago.