Wind-besotted rains knocked white petals from the Bradford pear tree across the street and patterned the new grass with curlicues. Nearby, browning blossoms from magnolia trees cluster in piles along the plank fence and upon the patio furniture. Daffodils along the road, once trumpeters of spring’s surprise, resemble pinched cheeks of dowagers still intent upon preening in the sun for the kiss of youth.

However, with colors fading comes disintegration, then melding into the earth; its “Ah!” gets lodged within memory. There will be another spring, I used to say, soothing my grief and anticipating the flowering of summer’s riotous colors—just a matter of time.

So time is the culprit disrobing natural beauty of its window into the Sacred. Tinges of sadness emerge. No one knows if they will see another spring. Photos can freeze that fleeting glance, but it’s not the same. Gone is the energy. 

Such awareness begs for acceptance. Especially is this true for my terminal illness like a deadly insect slowly devouring my lungs. Yet, with my helpers, I still groom and dress myself as if I’ve a full day of errands to run. Another friend styles my silver hair. 

So like the single cluster of pear blossoms on the tree, I’m still here, waiting until nudged elsewhere.