almost ready.

My daughter and I are out for a walk around the block and her small hand is folded into mine. It is mild for March, and warm when we stand in the sunshine.  We linger in these sunny spots on the street, letting the warmth seep into our skin.

“Look at those flowers,” I point out to my daughter. Her gaze follows my finger to our neighbor’s yard. Beneath the hard ground, small purple petals are poking through, almost ready to bloom.

My daughter releases my hand and wanders over, with wide eyes. She crouches down and reaches her fingers out to touch the petals.

“I love the purple,” she says. I agree; even though it has been a mild winter, these months are always devoid of the beautiful bright colors that bring me so much joy in spring. Winter is too dark for me, too gray and black for my taste.

In the last few weeks, I have seen the signs of change. The sky seems brighter. My patio is covered with the chalk drawings of my daughter and her friends from the mild afternoons we now spend outside. Their colorful scribbles contrast against the gray stone. Already, my backyard is littered with bright-colored toys: a pink soccer ball, bubble wands and a shovel from the sandbox.

The summer looms ahead of me, and I yearn for it, but my daughter’s observations ground me in the moment. We are not there, not quite yet. There is beauty and joy to be found in these mild spring days.

I see changes in my daughter too lately. She turned three and started using the potty. She is settled in her routine, and this provides comfort for her, to be aware of her schedule. She invited her friends over for a pajama-themed birthday party. I wonder if I can even call her a toddler anymore? She seems so grown up to me, so aware of the world around her.

There are new milestones ahead, but I am trying to stay present where we are, right now.

Every day that we can, we go out and soak up the weak sunshine. We look for flowers and other signs of spring. My daughter digs holes in the hard dirt and hides stones under the bushes. She tells me she is gardening, to get ready for summertime.

I crouch down to her level and let my own fingers run through the soil. It is damp, a remnant of winter, I think. Or perhaps it is in preparation for spring.

“It’s not time for the garden yet,” I remind her. She nods solemnly.

“Mommy, let’s go look for more flowers,” she suggests instead.

So we do. We walk around the block, we turn our faces up to the sun, grateful for its frail rays, and we look for flowers, marveling at their bright petals, almost ready to unfurl for spring.