Palm Sunday

The fountains are dry; pollen is caked in the pocked concrete of the driveway, and in the animals’ fur.  Lia takes the Christmas lights off the Japanese maple. She is afraid they will hurt the little tree somehow. Palm Sunday. The sung Passion of Luke. Absent are the awkward, errant “alleluias” from the first few weeks of Lent.  In a week, the children will cut azaleas and irises to take with them to the altar. We leave early, Isabel and I, to get Catherine’s medicine. Her fever is down but not by much.

“It’s my fault,” I say, “for not fixing the fence sooner.”

“Don’t do that to yourself, Papi,” she says. I forget she is only five.

We make signs, Isabel and I, the largest font reserved for “LOST.”  I spell it for her, forgetting she is already five.

I drive around stuffing mailboxes, the wisteria in the air.

We sleep off and on during the day recovering. Watch a movie. Eat dinner. Are up again all night.

“‛There are wolves on the lawn.’” Yes. I like it very much. But it’s already taken.