And just like everybody else in Brooklyn, she dreams of spring, even though she’s never known it, even though all she’s ever known is winter with its crunch of snow and screaming tea kettles. I try to tell her about spring: how the layers peel off and the birds go wild, how the cherry blossoms explode and the sun never seems to set, but she wails, inconsolably, so certain it’ll be winter forever, so sure we’ll be sitting in this house staring out the windows until we’re as old and gray as the sky. How can you believe what you’ve never known? Sunflowers, I tell her, as big as your head! And tulips–everywhere–the streets littered with their petals. But she is tired and unbelieving, so I bounce her, rock her, bounce her. Hush, I say, and over and over I tell her, spring will be here soon, hoping she believes me, hoping I’m right.