Do Spirits Cry?

I sat at my kitchen table one sunny morning a day or so ago, looking out the window into the snowy backyard. That window was new; a lovely and spacious bay window David and I had installed the winter before he died.
Looking through it is always bittersweet. Sweet memories,  dreams now of our life the way it was, mixed with the bitter reality of loss. 

The hedges surrounding our deck  were laden with snow. There were no birds. A few icicles hung from the roof, but not many.

I have tulip bulbs sprouting in a glass dish on the window sill. The cat was curled up on a kitchen chair, napping in the warm February sunshine. It was unseasonably mild for this time of year and some of the snow was beginning to melt. I turned my face to the morning sun and began a conversation with David as I usually do.

Movement drew my eye to the window pane.

It was a lone drop of water, glistening in the sunlight. 
It sat there for a second or two, then slowly trickled down the glass, like a tear drop running down somebody's cheek.