My mother killed herself on the first day of spring. Her crocuses must have been coming up, small green shoots between patches of old snow, as she crossed the driveway for the last time. No other green would have been visible yet. That would come later, in April and May, all the shoots and then flowers of the hyacinths, daffodils and tulips that she'd planted and tended. The forsythia, lilacs and dogwoods that bordered the driveway wouldn't have stirred yet, and her roses around the fishpond would've still been covered in burlap.
I don't know just what it looked like on that last night, because I wasn't there. I don't...