Spring

My dad told me that when he was a kid, every spring after the snow had melted he'd walk through the field of his elementary school and scour the grass for coins dropped in the winter by weak, shivering hands. Each time I come up my driveway I look to the right at our lawn. Snowbanks piled four feet high, the square space of the lawn untouched for months. Come the thaw there will be no wealth revealed under the vault of snow in front of our house. Nothing will have changed. The drowned grass will gasp back to living and the water will dirty the streets. And while no bronze or silver will glint in the sun, there remains the treasure of seeing something so familiar, after having been hidden for so long.