One of the traits I inherited from my Grandpa Davie is a zest for life, followed immediately by a sentimentality so strong that it can stop me in my tracks, weeping with homesickness, weeping with joy at having seen a beautiful thing, weeping just to weep.

Sunday was Mother’s Day, and when asked what I wanted to do, sentimentality and joie de vivre took over. I wanted to watch sunlight braid itself into the golden curls on Briar’s head, I wanted to watch Avery gallop, hips swiveling with each magnificent stride, I wanted to feel Fin on my chest, the gentle rumble of snoring and the kisses of newborn fingertips on my bare skin. I wanted to stand proudly with Sean watching our brood. And so I did. For six glorious hours we played at the park, picnicked beneath evergreens and then scaled the mossy trails of Buck Mountain.

It was just the kind of day a person could weep for having tasted.

Today I weep with fever and aches, my body upset with my heart for trodding so heavily toward joy that it trumped reason.

Off to a hot bath, but oh the sweet memories of the day. Maybe Grandpa was watching, weeping and sighing at the beauty of it all. I hope so.