My family has taken to teasing me over my annual surprise when a shrubbery or tree on our property shows signs of life around March or April. I must admit, I do look at my plants in the winter and think to myself, “Well, that’s it. They’re dead.” And I do this every year.
I kneel at the side of my bushes and snap their branches to check the inside for moist green. I stare at them for long periods of time, wondering if I need to uproot the plant and toss it out for a new one.
Tonight over dinner, I noticed that our tree in the backyard was beginning to reveal fresh buds where pink flowers will soon blossom. My surprise was evident. Many of the other trees on the property had already flowered, and in the back of my mind, the only explanation for why this one hadn’t done so yet was that it had finally died.
Maybe I’m a fringe lunatic, and this is just evidence that I lack a certain chill. It also might reflect my lack of faith in miracles.
Spring is something of a miracle. I don’t easily take to miracles.
