In spring

She’d walked outside late morning in pajamas and bare feet, to take something or other to the trash. On the way back in, her gaze fell over the yard. Robins were singing, and for spring to be just about in full stride, all she noted in full color were the odd daffodil or hyacinth popping up here or there. Bulbs she’d planted.

Three years prior, maybe four, he’d gone into the front yard with a shovel. Through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows of their living room, she cradled her coffee mug and watched him dig up the eight or so mature azalea bushes that had been blooming there for years, probably decades. He dragged them off to the curb, one by one. Down at the street they lay dying, waiting for the city crews to come and haul them off. When he’d come back inside covered in sweat and dirt, she’d asked him why; and he’d made some remark about how old or unsightly they were.

In the months and then years that followed, he’d never mentioned them again, nor replanted anything in that bare space, and year after year she stared at the exposed red clay.

Her love died off, too, but it might have been unrelated.

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Comments
2 Responses to “In spring”
  1. pip says:

    every single day, you stir my soul in the most incredible ways…i love you…thank you for being in my life and bringing such beauty into my world…you’re the most amazing creature and i am swelled up with pride to call you friend…

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