When I was five years old, my father taught me how to whistle. I felt pretty special, sitting on the bench seat of his Cadillac, in my favorite dress with the blue flowers.
With just one bite of a freshly picked strawberry, it is possible to eradicate any residual weather-induced trauma suffered from a cold, drawn-out spring.
With the bedroom windows open to the cool night air, early morning birdsong slips between the curtains, tripping lightly across the room to the edge of my bed.