year after year, our weekend in d.c. arrives on the wings of spring. by now we've lost count of how many years this makes -- four? -- and each tuft of blossoms greets us sweeter than the last. if last year's memories sing of our earliest weeks of parenthood and francis' first laugh (and the year before that: of hope for our very baby, come down from the stars), this year the pitter-pat of very first steps upon earth is the only thing we could hear.
we delighted in our best loved spots 'round town (blueberry pancakes at eastern market, supper at founding farmers, swooning over roses and rowhouses on capitol hill, pitango gelato, wawa coffee for the drives to and fro) and made new checks on our ever-growing list (district doughnut, the national museum of african american history and culture). mostly we marveled at this sparkling thought: year after year, our weekend in d.c. arrives on the wings of spring, some years in april and others in march, but always just exactly as the blossoms bloom to burst, as though they know how we treasure them as tokens of time, as though they know we've come all this way just for them.