My husband and my daughter planted a tree together last year. It was her tree. It was gnarly bare all winter long. And then surprisingly on a late winter’s day, it blossomed. On her birthday. There was something about that girl and that tree. All synced in an intangible chord of nature.
From then on she called it her ‘blossom tree’.
This winter the blossom tree was bare again. Showing no signs of bursting buds. Last week my husband said to me “Have you seen the blossom tree? I don’t think it will blossom in time for her birthday this year”.
I looked out the window. Yep, nothing but a skeleton of branches.
Five years ago on a late winter’s day, a little blossom burst into our lives. And I fell deep in crazy love with her. She was more beautiful than I ever imagined. And for the first time I was struck by the indefinable tension of loving someone so much that the thought of losing them would break you in two. How did such beauty come to me? Surely, I must be the luckiest person in the world.
And I still am. I’ve won the jackpot.
In the last five years my blossom has bloomed into a delightful human being. I’ve written about her here and here and here. She makes me want to live better every single day. She is ancient and wise. Everything I’ve written about her remains true: “She’s a firecracker. She’s a siren. … She’s sunlight. She’s chiming bells. She’s tender fingertips. She’s whispers of grace”.
Today my daughter turned five. I looked out the window this morning and I think you know what I’m about to tell you. Blossom tree is blossoming.
Big bright bursts of sweetness.
Something about that girl and that tree.
