and I don’t have a cute kid story, and to tell the truth, joy feels shy as a forest creature, waking after the last gasp of winter. What can I offer from my hibernation heavy heart, sleepy and only wanting to stay silent in the frosted dark? Then I remember this winter we hung a prism suncatcher up in the kitchen window. Every morning, the eastward light glints off the groaning buses as they wake for the new day, the light caught in the crystal refracts against the wall. Every morning I grind coffee and count rainbows. What is joy if not this? Light showing up as it really is, transfigured sunlight in kettle steam.