The mustard yellow dumpster is gone now. It has been parked in Helene’s driveway for a few days, slowly filling with her life. The tall, pink roses on the south wall have been cut down and the tomato plant tossed out. One of her couches is hoping for a home.
She died in her sleep on July 12th… 4:00 on a Sunday morning. In someone else’s place.
I took my pruning shears over to her house the day she died and cut a branch of her rose bush for myself. It had one bloom and several buds on it. By the time her funeral came along, most of the buds had opened. I took the vase to a counter where I could take a picture and several of the blooms flew apart. I saved all of the petals as they fell and will take them with me when I go to visit her grave.
I don’t understand how it happens every year. April gets by me even though I make a conscious effort going in to be present for this magic month.
Of course, I have the same problem with October. I am certain it’s a disciplinary thing… it means I need to schedule it, I guess.
The attention needed to keep the laundry done and the groceries stocked rivals the business stuff…. and somehow in all of that, the wild beauty outside my door just pushes up out of the ragged winter without me.
Sure, I have had two chances in 26 days to go play in the dirt… lawnmowers and weed pulling …. some serious pruning, a little slug bait… what I am too keenly aware of is that May will gallop headlong into November and I will be startled once again to find my narrow year almost gone.
I have a feeling it’s going to be a short year except for the wide days that come when you aren’t looking…. I hope I am ready to sit in a shady spot with a book at least once or twice.