This is a pagan story that happens at Easter. Or an Easter story that happens when pagans attend to the rites of spring. At any rate it has a little girl in bright clothing, grownups in shiny shoes with feathers in their hats, fruits and sweets and new laid eggs on the altar of a woven basket, and two little animals, the centerpiece of this day. Ultimately there will be a sacrifice.

I drove into Owen Park and parked on the hill to hunt for my gloves. Driving while feeling under car seats is not good. I could have left them in a couple of places, or they might be in one of the pockets of the four layers I had on. Actually I hadn’t seen them since yesterday. So they may have been blown into some corner of the market parking lot last night.

The summer traffic jam is past, but I’m not yet used to the novelty of finding parking in front of the places I want to go. Leslie’s, the Reliable, the Steamship Authority lot. Space! But I got through this season without losing a fender, my temper or my driver’s license; well, you can’t lose what’s gone, namely your temper.

A week or so ago I was saying to friends, “Don’t rush me! It’s not spring, I haven’t finished (or begun) my winter chores yet, slow down, will you?” Some of us were standing in the doorway of a house out in the country, looking out at the soft grey day; the drizzle mixed with a little sleet, verging on snow. It was quiet, not too cold ... refreshing.

“This is beautiful,” I said, taking a deep breath.