5/24/08: One Year
The iris are about a week behind where they were a year ago today. The buds are still tightly wrapped, tipped in inky purple or a golden coral that will open to the color of a pink grapefruit's flesh. In a day or two, I hope, I'll be able to cut a big bunch and bring them in.
A year ago today, the grapefruit-colored blooms were all but done. The purple ones were huge, catching the breeze like sails, leaning from their own weight to hover over the edge of the driveway.
The day was sunny, windy, pleasantly warm. As usual when he wasn't working I had gotten Lochlainn up when I was done in the bathroom and finishing getting dressed. We sat out on the porch with my coffee and his tea, talking about the weekend to come. I'd already put in for a vacation day before we decided not to go to Crown Tourney, so we had the unusual prospect ahead of a four-day weekend and nowhere to go except fighter practice. Also as usual, we sat there until the very last minute that I could leave and not be late to work.
We both headed out the back door, Lochlainn opening the garage door as he came down the stairs. We rounded the car and noticed the beautiful iris. He said it would be a shame to brush them with the car and damage them as I left, so he fetched the snips from the garage and I went downstairs to find my big grey vase. We cut all the stalks that leaned into the driveway, a big armful that barely fit into the vase, and put them on the dining-room table. At this point I knew I would be late--nearly half an hour--but I wasn't concerned. I'd just work through lunch again.
I remember this clearly. My briefcase and purse were already in the car. I kissed him and said, "Love you, Papa. Have a good day." He said, "You too, Muffin." And I got in and drove away.
I am choosing to remember the morning of that day. Not the evening, not the days and weeks and months that followed, but the morning; the sun on the wisteria vines, the smell of Earl Grey tea with cinnamon and vanilla, the brown-hazel eyes, the promise of the day. And half an hour spent as well as any could be, in beauty and in love.
I can't wait for the iris to bloom...
A year ago today, the grapefruit-colored blooms were all but done. The purple ones were huge, catching the breeze like sails, leaning from their own weight to hover over the edge of the driveway.
The day was sunny, windy, pleasantly warm. As usual when he wasn't working I had gotten Lochlainn up when I was done in the bathroom and finishing getting dressed. We sat out on the porch with my coffee and his tea, talking about the weekend to come. I'd already put in for a vacation day before we decided not to go to Crown Tourney, so we had the unusual prospect ahead of a four-day weekend and nowhere to go except fighter practice. Also as usual, we sat there until the very last minute that I could leave and not be late to work.
We both headed out the back door, Lochlainn opening the garage door as he came down the stairs. We rounded the car and noticed the beautiful iris. He said it would be a shame to brush them with the car and damage them as I left, so he fetched the snips from the garage and I went downstairs to find my big grey vase. We cut all the stalks that leaned into the driveway, a big armful that barely fit into the vase, and put them on the dining-room table. At this point I knew I would be late--nearly half an hour--but I wasn't concerned. I'd just work through lunch again.
I remember this clearly. My briefcase and purse were already in the car. I kissed him and said, "Love you, Papa. Have a good day." He said, "You too, Muffin." And I got in and drove away.
I am choosing to remember the morning of that day. Not the evening, not the days and weeks and months that followed, but the morning; the sun on the wisteria vines, the smell of Earl Grey tea with cinnamon and vanilla, the brown-hazel eyes, the promise of the day. And half an hour spent as well as any could be, in beauty and in love.
I can't wait for the iris to bloom...