It was february but felt like march, the kind of march where early crocuses might creep in and defy the threat of snow to come.
The air was thick with a cool drizzle and the sky the color of spilt milk. Bits of gray snow squelched beneath our boots, melted into the grass and pooled on the sidewalk. A dreary day, but hopeful as the rain not snow misted into our hair and our noses grew rosy from the chill.
And, perhaps it was this sense of hope--a sense of potential unbidden and unlooked for--that caused us to look. To look and see it. The door. The door in the tree in Deming park.
It was an odd little door. About a foot high, with a latch, nestled securely and hinged properly into what looked to be a tall maple.
To be continued...