Pussy willows

The early morning snow turned to rain as the temperature rose. As the day wore on it even felt like a spring rain, the first in a long, long time.

I was invited to lunch with another writer at her villa in the Geneva countryside. There are several old villas there, all part of an ancient estate. Hers, before conversion, was where the owners pressed the grapes. The stone press about the size of a double bed, decorates her living room. Outside her double-doored windows grapevines are lined up like a marching army, twisted from battle. In a few weeks they will begin to green.

As I wait for her to unlock the door before I return home after a meal and conversation on varied topic, I notice that at the tip of each branch of the leaf-shorn bushes a single rain drop glisten in the late afternoon light like so many transparent pussy-willows, but unlike the pussy willows in the woods and those just appearing in the stores for sale, these will only last in memory. Again I am reminded how important the minute is and how I should not waste them. Like the brother-I-always-wanted RB2 said, “each day should have a celebration.” Mine was water drop pussywillows.