Easter morning.

I woke up to sunlight filtering through the bedroom shade--casting shadow streaks and puddles on the tumbled white comforter, on Tom's crest of hair, on the polished floorboards.

Now, in the living room, a single yellow daffodil rises from a narrow glass jar, its face turned from the light. Pebbles of blue sky gleam in the curtainless windows.

Yesterday I strung a sweet-pea trellis beside the stoop, laid some wire fencing over the garden boxes that cats and squirrels have been vandalizing. I dug dandelion greens, cut a bowlful of sorrel and chives. I sowed grass seed in the barren mudflats of the backyard. We'd intended to move forward with some hardscape this year--gravel paths, a patio, a deck--but there's no money to waste on such things now.

Meanwhile, Tom and Paul rode off on bikes to find someplace to play catch. It's April. There should be baseball. We're wistful.

Today, I'll make a good dinner: grilled flank steak, roasted potatoes, a salad of garlicky broccoli and the spring greens I harvested yesterday, a custard pie. The boys will color the eggs they didn't get around to coloring yesterday. I'll talk to family and friends.

I'm thankful for this small island . . . A needy patch of ground. A little house with doors and windows. The tenderness of a hand in my hair. A white cat purring on my shoulder. An eager young voice.

Easter is a reminder that the world is worth a second look.