This afternoon I was in such a hurry that I banged the nonexistent front fender of the red hot lover on the parking garage cement post. The tape that is on the car, hiding the fact that it doesn’t really have fenders, was torn to shreds. The beauty of having a terribly ugly old car is that you don’t care about any of this. When I park the car next to Ed’s truck, I routinely let the door swing open so that it bangs into the pickup. It’s a very satisfying sound.
I know what made this an especially edgy day – I was tired. Isis decided to spend the night in and out of the farmhouse. Happy to sit on the couch with us. Restless once we retired. Wants to go out. Wants to come back in. Out. In. And so on, all night long. (The cat door would solve all Isis issues, but I resist it nonetheless. For many reasons.)
Late in the day, at Paul’s café, I contemplate taking a nap. No. It’s my email catch up time. I cannot.
But when we finally come back to the farmhouse, I know I need to let go of it all. Ed takes off to ride his Wednesday Night bike ride and I lose myself in the flower beds. Dig this weed out, move that plant over, scratch the earth, stomp the soil – finally, relief!
An hour later, I feel whole again.
I look around me with the older camera in hand. Yes, this is the last of early spring.
The last of the lilac season. Let me frame the farmhouse one last time in its majestic purple.
What’s the sequence? Which plants bloom next, after the bulbs, the fruits and the lilacs? There’s always a bit of mystery to it. No matter how many spring seasons you’ve gone through, you can never quite predict what’s next.
Maybe the lilies of the valley?
I go inside and reheat the vegetable soup. Ed will say it's always best the second day. Like spring, like flowers, like anything else that feels good. It feels even better the second day.