On a sunny April day, I went on a late afternoon walk in my neighborhood. Trees were budding, and children were outside—playing street hockey in alleys, biking to neighbors’ houses, shooting hoops in driveways—probably just before the voices floating through half-open windows would call them inside for dinner.

An energy of newness was wafting through the air. You could smell it in the fresh-cut grass and the grills that had been turned on for the first time that season.

And when did winter end? I don’t recall.

It’s funny how the seasons can shift so quickly. We blink, and leaves have dressed the trees. We only occasionally recognize winter in the potholes in the road and the forty-degree days that pop up in May.

Isn’t that how grief works? In one season, grief is the whole world. It lingers in long stretches. It’s weeks of thick snow piled on ice, or flooded plains, or sweltering days. Yes, there are glimmers of goodness—the sun sparkling on fresh snow, birds singing, purple sunsets reflected in the lake. But we’re glad that the seasons change, that the weather shifts. We’re glad that although our days can hold grief in one moment, they can hold nostalgia in the next; newness, connection, despair, gratitude, joy, annoyance, hope, impatience, laughter, and love intermingle.

As I pass dog-walkers and porch-sitters, I can’t help thinking what a privilege it is to be human, together.

Madeline Witvliet

Madeline Witvliet (’25) graduated from Calvin with a degree in English. She can be found in coffee shops in Eastown, exploring Michigan’s state parks, or singing with Calvin’s Alumni Choir. Madeline enjoys spending time outdoors, crafting, and cooking Mediterranean-inspired meals.