Perfection

The sky is that deep seamlessly perfect blue that only happens on a perfect spring day. Pussywillows purr in the neighbour's tree. Tiny spots of emerald show themselves on our front lawn.

Best of all, the harmonious cacophony of the laughter of boys sings through the open window, permeating our house with the sounds of spring.

As I stand at the sink, I see our youngest and his best friend up in the treehouse, methodically planning a play to which I will be treated in a few minutes. Complete with wigs and full costumes, the drama could involve aliens, superheroes, anything the five-year-old imagination could conjure. Yesterday, it was the story of a taxi-driver who saved the day when he refused to give a ride to a bank robber, allowing him to be caught by the policeman, who happened to be the taxi-driver's twin brother.

The front door opens to welcome the older two boys who've been cruising the neighbourhood on their bikes. This time, they enter with treats - munchies, chocolate milk, gum. They've been to the confectionery a few blocks away. They helped their dad clean up the backyard earlier in the day, and their well-earned greenery was burning a hole in their pockets.

I'm curled up on the couch now, with a good book, a steaming cup of tea, and the blinds open wide, letting the sunlight blanket me in its warmth. Although it's hard to see it at the time, sickness has a definite purpose in my life. If I weren't still "on the mend", I would never sit down to appreciate the perfection of the day.