The Vixen family lived in a small house on the banks of an undisturbed river. Mary Vixen, wearing her favorite blue day dress, finished creating her new delicacy, two individual breakfast quiches for her and her husband, George Vixen. One, very plain and respectable, sat on the right side of the table for Mary, and a darkened and colorful combination sat on the left for George.

Mary breathed in a filling of crystal clear air, feeling her lungs dance in the presence of it’s warm and comforting quality. Dancing over to the window, she opened the sashes and let a breeze twirl into the brightened yellow room. Outside, small yellow dandelions sprung from the glowing green grass of the riverside, a school of minnows could be seen battling against the delicate, clear river current.

On a small, wooden bench that George Vixen had crafted himself, white roses baked in the sun, waiting to be submerged in the dirt. Mary had already dug the space she needed, and waited patiently for the afternoon to arrive. Gardening, after all, was her favorite hobby, always saved for the moments after breakfast.Today, she was ecstatic to plant her masterpiece.

Mary felt the strong feeling of spring and, in her opinion, the new year. With a ring of her silver and quaint breakfast bell, she heard the grunt of her loving husband George from upstairs. His voice, even now, felt beautiful to her; strong and yet fragile as the daisies outside.

As George made his way down the stairs in his navy terry-cloth robe, Mary sat delightedly in her green painted chair, at the right side of the table.

“Good morning, Mr. Vixen,” Mary gestured for her husband to sit across from her, in the bright red sister to her own seat. The home felt warm, and the surrounding air tasted like spring and freshly baked breakfast.

“What is this?” George asked delicately, “Some sort of special occasion?” In response, Mary pursed her lips, gestured again for her husband to take his rightful seat.

“A spring celebration,” She responded with a gentle smile.

George sat respectively in his seat, and looked down at his quiche; carefully baked and crafted to look just as a breakfast would. He smiled to his wife, his neatly trimmed mustache tickling the brim of his lips. At once, they began to eat.

As they ate, George marveled over the wonderful day it ought to be, the delicacy of the river’s current, and the brightness of the sun’s rays; “Warm, but not enough to burn.” As he spoke, Mary couldn’t help but agree with him. He was right, after all. The warm spring day was to be one full of comforting sunshine and Mary thought, perhaps I can wear my new hat today.

As the room fell silent over time, Mary cleaned up what was left, placed her black woven hat precisely on her head, and towed George’s body to the garden.