I’m trying to treasure this spring. It is the first of its kind for me and possibly unique. This is the first year John and I have lived in our house, but we’re only the most recent in a long line of caretakers for not just the building, but the little plot of land on which it sits.
We bought the house in the fall and didn’t have much of a chance to speak with the previous owners, so we don’t know much about what they planted where. It didn’t occur to us, in the cold of November, to ask them what the naked trees would show themselves to be come spring. I’m glad we didn’t.
We’re pretty sure that the plant that’s putting off an increasingly yellow aura is forsythia. It won’t be long before that early bloomer reveals itself. John’s loving that plant fiercely to make up for the disdain I shower upon it. I have little affection for the toxic yellow harbinger of allergen doom, I can’t lie.
As much as I’m rooting for the forsythia to turn out to be something completely different, I’m cheering for the hedge behind it that looks promisingly like lilac. I’m holding my breath to find out what color roses will bloom from the two scraggly bushes beside the house. I’m cat-killing curious to see what the hedge behind the house will turn out. I’m impatient for summer to tell which of the brambles on the edge of the woods will bear raspberries. I’m eager to find out if this is a blooming year in the life cycle of our little apple tree. And I’m slightly petrified of the purple alien tentacles that are peeking out of the soil on the sunny side of the house.
It’s possible that next year I will be just as kid-on-Christmas-Eve anxious to greet the new plants, buds, and leaves as spring crowns, but the anxiety will be different. I’ll know what I’m excited to meet. I’ll know what that mysterious bush at the top of the driveway will bear. I’ll know what bulbs I’ve planted in the rock-strewn flower bed. What I imagine for them will be dimmed by my knowledge of what they are.
And that’s okay. That’s life, that’s love. But for now, I am savoring the uncharted possibility of what could be.