This morning as I sipped my coffee and watched the dog chase the white-tailed rabbits sprinting across the yard, I noticed how quickly all the trees and plants in the backyard are changing.
We bought this house in the fall, so I’ve never seen it in spring. Watching the dead-looking twigs and branches in our yard suddenly bloom into bright red buds and chartreuse leaves has been a fascinating series of discoveries.
The changes continue to change, too! Those red buds on the tree where I decided to hang my birdhouse and bird feeder quickly turned into pale pinkish-white blossoms. Not knowing anything about plants, I couldn’t tell you what this tree is called, but I assure you it’s lovely to look at. Today I noticed that the green is coming around the white and the petals will soon fall. Three big changes, all within a week’s time!
As I watch this rapid spring progress in the yard, I’m reminded that other things are changing rapidly too. In just one month, it will have been 14 years since my father died of cancer. I can’t believe that all these springs have come and gone without him in his overalls using kite string to mark out the rows in his garden for the tomatoes, corn, broccoli, and zucchini. Our potatoes, carrots, and broccoli mostly come from the grocery store these days.
I remember helping my dad plant marigolds, those stinky flowers that keep pesky bugs away from the garden. I remember how the smell would get into my hands and I remember the mint growing with wild abandonment underneath my bedroom window. I could open the window and reach down and grab some, it was growing so high and out of control. I would rub the leaves between my fingers, releasing the spearmint oil and scent. Sometimes mom would send me out to get some for the tea, a refreshing summer treat.
It’s been 14 years since he’s planted the decorative barrels by the front sidewalk with snapdragons and petunias. Watching the daffodils come up in early spring reminds me of all the bulbs he planted in a large circle in the front yard, the same circle that one year was full of tiny, juicy strawberries that we picked for a delightful dessert anytime we could spot some that were ripe, red juice staining our cheeks and chins.
I miss my father terribly, and above all in the spring, when everything is growing, but he’s not here to till and hoe and rake.
I think dad would have loved my backyard and would have known every tree, bush, and flower that I had and how to take care of it. I’ll have to leverage the power of Google and my more horticulturally-minded friends to sort that out. And we will. We’ll learn how to take care of all these plants and add new ones of our own (a lilac is a must!).
Things have changed quickly in this last year. My son is turning 14 and finishes middle school this month. Yes, my dad’s passing and my son’s birth happened right next to each other. There’s this deep conflict in me at my son’s birthday, knowing that his age also keeps the tally of the years we’ve been missing dad. I’m so proud of my son growing and learning and changing over time, but it’s also bittersweet, because I know that my father didn’t get a chance to meet his grandson and watch those changes for himself.
In those last months, we would talk on the phone. I would sit in the new nursery, hand on pregnant belly, to tell dad about the things we had set up for the baby. He was delighted for the new arrival to come. He hated talking on the phone, but I’m so grateful that I have that memory.
Surrounded by the blooms of a new season, with my teenager texting ideas for his birthday celebration, I am deeply grateful that each spring’s splendor brings back the memories of my father and the warmth of his love.