Do you know that more people are depressed in spring? It’s true. You would think people would be more depressed in winter, especially if they live in frigid areas where snow, ice, and gray skies smother ambition like a wet blanket. But, no. It’s spring—when flowers are blooming, trees are budding, birds are singing, and grass is greening. That’s when people decide life, for them, is over. Strange, isn’t it? How earth’s fresh happiness can suck hope right out of a soul.

I believe it to be true, though, as I sit here, blinds drawn against the offensive brightness of the mid-May sun. Even with the windows closed, I catch a whiff of lilacs from the bush outside my front door. And that darn cardinal—well, he hasn’t ceased his singing since daybreak. Who can blame him, though, with his mate close by—their sweet nest making filling his days.

Me. I’m mateless. My wife died last winter. See? I should’ve been depressed then—but I was numb. Now that the crabapple tree has burst into pink flames, I am crying in my coffee cup, often not showering for days. It all seems senseless somehow—this twittering and living. But until I figure out exactly how not to live, I’ll sit in semi-darkness.

Then I hear an insistent scratching on my front door. I turn my head toward the noise. A squirrel, perhaps. But the scratching persists. And persists. I finally rise, plod across the room, and throw open the door. For a moment, I’m blinded. Then I look down at a golden, albeit filthy golden, dog. “What do you want?” I mutter. “Shoo.” He looks at me with liquid brown eyes and holds up a bleeding paw.

“Well, hell,” I hear myself say. “Aren’t you just a blossom? Come in.”