For the last several days I’ve been watching the fruit trees in the garden as they gradually blossom into that glorious full bloom that really does announce there is hope on the horizon. That is the eternal promise of spring.
Unexpectedly, the trees — the garden — made me, once again, acutely aware of my present situation and with it a stark reminder of my pronoun problem when I gazed out on my absolute favorite harbinger of spring, the massive, wildly unruly forsythia bush I can see from the bedroom and kitchen windows.
As banal as it may seem, I wanted to tell you how for decades this hardy bush has made me happy. But, in the past, I’ve always said “our” forsythia, “our” bedroom window, “our” house, “our” kitchen window and suddenly I’m thinking, “my” forsythia because I’m no longer an “our” — no longer a “we,” no longer a couple. It seemed so strange tumbling around in my head.
Is that wonderfully familiar “we” no longer part of my vocabulary? How can that be?
Then I decided everything in this house and garden was, is and always will be ours because My-Reason-For-Living-In-France and I planted everything together, strategically choosing the precise locations of each tree, bush and flower for optimum joy from inside and outside our house. Spring was his favorite season.
Furthermore, at the end he reminded me that he would always be with me. And, as I said, he asked for my promise that I would seek out, recognize and celebrate joy “as you begin your new life.”
It was his last wish.