8th April

A fine, clear day. The sun shines with a welcoming light.

Everywhere the trees shyly display their newly opened leaves, so tender and green. The willow tree is already in bloom, heavy with catkins. The rhododendron buds have swollen to bursting; razor edges of pink and violet show through at each seam. New blossoms appear in the meadow every day and make a kaleidoscope of the grass: bluebells, violets, and butter-yellow daffodils.

It is spring, and the world awakens. I can hardly bear to stay indoors—I would sleep beneath the stars if I could—but Weed remains dormant, buried in his coal bin like a kernel in the husk.

I must persuade him to awaken, too.

“HOW OLD ARE YOU, WEED?” I ask when I bring down his breakfast: a bowl of porridge, a boiled egg, two apples and two strips of bacon, tea, and a cup of fresh milk. Now that he has made his peace with eating grains and fruit, he eats a great deal. I thought he was younger than I am when I first saw him bundled up in those rags, but now, as he gains color and flesh, I suspect he may be my age, at least.

He tucks the napkin under his chin and shrugs. “How old is the grass?”

His breakfast tray rests on a plank of wood we prop across the coal bin; he sits on the stool, and I perch on the bottommost stair. “Your question has no answer,” I say in return. “The grass dies every winter and comes back every spring. It has no age in years; it is both newborn and everlasting.”

“That must be how old I am, then.” He lifts his fork and recites, “Thank you for all I am about to receive.”

“So you are as old as grass, and as young as grass?” I tease. He does not smile.

“The truth is I do not know,” he says after a moment. “Found in a basket by a drunken friar is not much of a birthday.”

“From now on, then, the loveliest day of spring can be your birthday,” I say impulsively. “And you can be my age. Sixteen now, seventeen next month. That means you are older than I am, for I do not turn seventeen until autumn.”

“Sixteen,” he repeats. “All right.”

He eats, and I watch. After a few minutes he offers me a slice of apple.

“Thank you.” I take it between two fingers and lift it to my lips.

“Eh!” he cries. “First you must say it—”

“Thank you for all I am about to receive,” I say obligingly, and pop the apple slice in my mouth.

It takes him only a short while to finish every bite on the tray. “Come.” I hold out my hand. “The sky is the most wonderful shade of blue. You must come upstairs with me, and we will take a walk in the meadow.”