It always comes as a surprise. When the unruly bush beside the driveway turns yellow, it opens a box of feelings that includes my mother. She loved those humble flowers, and gave them a cool vase of water to rest their feet in. Those and pussy willows meant that we had actually made it to spring.

 

I have never gone so far as to prune or fertilize the bush. She offers her lemony color gratis, for the sheer joy of warm breezes. The oaks around her were still naked in March, though I feel confident that they remember that they too are destined for green. Surely the dogwoods will come into their glory in a few weeks. Another dose of beauty I do not deserve. The trees were a gift from people who know I love them.

 

When I went shopping to fill my car with plants for the garden, I noticed a display of forsythia bushes. Twenty bucks for a lump a fifth the size of the one I had at home.  How about that. Some people shell out good money for what I have for free. Even years like this one, when winter and spring arm wrestle over just one more snowstorm the branches bide their time. Wait. Know. Bloom.

 

A friend reached out to me a month back asking for prayers for her marriage. I sent a slew of resources, including websites and books, and I have done as she asked. I pray. Every day. Recently I was at the church where they have a tray of votive candles for just that end and I lit one for her.  

 

I opened a message from her saying that things were brighter. Hopeful. A plan is forming. Apologies are forthcoming. They are starting to be cognizant of what they do have. Good health. Great kids. A house they chose together. A circle of trusted friends. Shared history.

 

For now I sit on the far side of prayer. Where I wait for them to bloom again.