A cloud of whirligigs spin down on a sudden breeze, from the maple trees newly leafed out in the garden. I’m sitting in the sunroom, looking through the big picture windows I opened to let in the warm air. There’s so much confetti floating in front of me that it feels like I’m inside a snow globe someone shook. It’s enchanting.
The old, mossy azaleas have managed to bloom bright pink again, like aging dowagers who still insist on dressing for dinner. I love the way the dusky fuchsia looks against the grey stone walls, how this fleeting color is the only contrast to the overwhelming green of spring at the moment.
I’ve been away all winter. I’ve missed this quiet communion. To sit and watch the butterflies dance by, to hear the frogs singing in the pond. To smell the rich promise of summer. The birds haven’t quite ventured out yet, but by the sound of loud chirping, they’re busy mustering in the trees. I can understand that. It takes time to adjust to changing seasons.
I spent the last few months in Florida, working hard to get back into competitive riding shape. I focused all my energies on this one goal, not letting myself consider that my need to be so busy and tired at the end of every day would distract me from mourning. But sometimes we need to be still, in order to let our feelings catch up with us.
Sitting here now, with the garden weaving its magic around me, I finally melt. Tears fall on my cheeks like a spring rain, watering my emotions. Through the open windows, the big old trees edging the bowl of lawn seem to bend toward me, their branches rippling as if in sympathy.
I miss my mother. She would have loved it here. After all, she taught me to love gardens, and all the creatures and growing things within them.
George gets up from my feet, where he’s been lying within easy reach of my hand, and whines. There is concern in his young eyes. “It’s okay boy,” I reassure him, wiping my face with my sleeve. I get up and open the sunroom door. Together we walk out into the afternoon light of the garden.
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