We walked the Wildwood trail at the top of the hill, that was the inspiration for a book by my favourite musician Colin Meloy of the Decemberists, sunlight burning a crack through the clouds to illuminate a random tree or moss covered branch. No fairies or talking anmals out today though. I wooshed down the hill back to the Rose Garden and felt that rush of freedom you get when moving fast on a bike after a big climb. Cherry blossoms were floating on the breeze in drifts and I explored the gardens while Dylan rang. In a dark corner was the Jewish memorial, life sized bronze sculptures of everyday objects cattered the path, a teddybear and trodden on violin. These very human offerings so much more moving than a wall of granite covered in names, I chance to remember the lives of the lost rather than just their deaths.

Further along leaves were surfacing in unfurling spikes from their winter slumber and hellebores nodded heavy with flowers. A man caught the last beams of sun on a grassy slope and the path ended in noisy playground packed with children. While Dylan unlocked the bikes for the descent a raven sat, a shadow, in a branch of the cherry tree. He looked at me in that side on way and croaked its ugly beautiful song.