Superbowl Sunday

It was twenty-eight degrees outside this morning, but I layered up and hit the road for a good walk in the sunshine. I slacked off over the last two days and have been feeling a little guilty. On the upside, my knees felt good, so I was more motivated to get out there; cold and all. It was great to be outside. I keep forgetting how nice it is. I walk and wave at passing drivers who wave back at me. It's a friendly area, and so beautiful. I said hello to my horse friend, and met a new friend, Mr. Sheep. He came to meet me for the first time ever.

Although it is early February in New England, Mother Nature thinks it is early spring. I don't care what Punxsutawney Phil said, the bulbs are popping up, and the robins are showing up. It's a very strange feeling. I like the warmer weather, but I just can't help feeling the snowshoe will hit us sometime soon. There's no evidence of this from the weather reports, but I just can't help feeling this weather just ain't right.

Snowdrops

Skunk Cabbage

As I walked and listened to Jennifer Nettles sing about dreams, I thought about my lost grandbaby boys, Aidan and Owen, and shed a few tears. I miss them so much today. Superbowl Sunday is about the boys. It's about rough-housing boys, loud-yelling boys, and back-slapping; butt-tapping boys. After feeling the sadness of their loss, I decided to stop lamenting. Instead, I thought about them sitting in Heaven with their Great Grampy and Uncle Paul, sitting on bleachers made of fluffy clouds. They are wearing their Patriots jerseys, eating hot dogs, and yelling in support of their family's favorite football team. I wish they could be here with us in body instead of in spirit. The thought of them being with us at all, though, made that little piece of my broken heart sing again. Go Pats! I can hear you, boys. Can you hear us? We love you.