Monday, March 28, 2016

the ninth day of spring

I may have said a few curse words while trying to cover these cascading plants, their thorns cutting through the plastic bags and cutting me.  It was bitter cold that evening, and threateningly low temperatures were predicted, but I was determined to get them through the winter.

The two pots of flowering vines were Spoke's favorite plants from last season.  He doted on them.  He nurtured them through July and August.  He told me often, how glad he was that I had chosen these: one all pink, the other pink mixed with salmon colored blooms.  They were like us; a pair, of the same yet different.

Bougainvillea are suited to Dallas summers because they require several hours of sunlight a day, but even so, Spoke made sure to rotate the pots so one never got more light than the other. 


My time without him, measured by the passing of Christmas, the beginning of a new year, his would have been birthday, and now Easter, I had accepted that the plants were never coming back to life either.  Imagine my joy, the first spontaneous wave to hit me, when I spotted the new growth.  Leaves are small, some miniscule, but visible!

We're in for a hot summer, I hear.  If these vines survive, if I can woo them to thrive and to bloom, I won't mind the heat.  Not one little bit.  I will bask in the joy they bring.


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