1 November 2024

The Hydrangea - gray0328

In spring’s first breath, last year’s bones 

Bloom forth with life, a memory rooted deep 

Old wood, worn yet strong, births colors anew 

Echoes of time, held fast in the flower’s heart

But when summer’s hand turns the world to flame 

Fresh stems rise, tender and unscarred, reaching 

New wood carries tomorrow in its veins 

A second flush, not bound by yesterday

Two lives converge within one tender bloom 

Old and new embrace, the seasons dance

Turning off the lights in the evening in these rainy and dark days makes me think, invariably, about my Rosemary. I find it almost impossible to find a reason to keep going.

I am saved by writing about it.

Last night I knew that this morning I would grab that double portrait of Rosemary and that I would bend it to make sure it had a visible crease. That crease cannot be removed. It is simply there, permanently for as long as the photograph exists.

Many of Rosemary’s and my roses are remontant. This means that once they bloom around June they bloom again. If I divide my hostas they sometimes revert to juvenility and their leaves might emerge smaller and narrower.

Imagine if humans could revert to juvenility and and get a second chance and be remontant?

As my garden fades into fall and the roses drop their leaves and hydrangea flowers lose their colour (but look beautiful in spite of it like in this scan) there is that hope, often realized, that come spring they will be back to greet me.

Alas, my Rosemary is not remontant and she is not coming back. And that keeps we awake at night as I scroll in my mind all those wonderful moments we had in our 52-year marriage.