Tuesday, Day 31: Bud

This is the first spring in Petalouda House. I must have walked past this house hundreds of times in the 15 years I lived here, but I never noticed the smooth, bronze-colored bark on the corner tree, or the blossoms that are coming, soon. I didn’t notice the giant lilac bushes along the edge of the yard, or the rose bushes by the garage, or the blackberries in back. We moved in at the right time to enjoy the roses and blackberries, but the lilacs and tree blossoms had come and gone much earlier.

Today, my spouse and daughter and I stood in the yard, running our hands along the bark of the tree, standing on our tiptoes to try to smell the soon-to-be white flowers on its branches.

“This bronze colored trunk has to be some kind of sign of good luck,” my daughter said, as if it had grown just for us.

“I can’t wait to smell the lilacs,” said my spouse, pressing her face against the tight buds.

“I can’t wait for this week to be over,” I said. Even though I continue to work after graduation, the pace slows way down, and even the end-of-year reporting feels more bearable in the face of all of this beauty.

We walked slowly around town, admiring every flowering tree—and there were many.

“It really couldn’t be a more perfect night,” my spouse said.

We turned the corner toward our home, and headed toward the trash to throw away a couple poop bags from our dog and the dogs my daughter is caring for now. “Looks like our yard is a little slower than the rest,” my daughter said. She turned and looked back at the lilac bushes, the tree. “We’ll have to wait for ours to flower, but we’re used to being patient, right, Mom? It will be worth it.” 

That would make a good end to the story, but right after that, she went on to describe how she hoped someday that we'd have enough money to turn our back yard into a giant swimming pool, complete with a whirlpool and bar. "Everyone who ends up living here would love that, don't you think?"

I took a deep breath. I wanted to lecture her on just staying in the moment, being grateful for what we have. I wanted to remind her that my car was dead, and the repairs were going to cost more than it was worth, and I had no idea how we were going to afford a new car, much less a swimming pool. I wanted to tell her she shouldn't be thinking about swimming pools when more than 6,000 were dead in Nepal, and much of the rest of the country destitute and hungry.

Instead, I took another deep breath. "Let's just enjoy the flowers, for now. They'll be here soon."

She nodded, and yanked on the dog's leash, and we headed toward the door as the sky darkened.