Hostas in the Front Yard

When the sun began to shine, the flowers in our front yard began to grow. I know this is the way that it is supposed to work, but I didn’t expect them to grow so quickly. And I certainly didn’t anticipate the way that green grass and violets would increase my attachment to this small corner of land. Each week new flowers blossom as old ones shrivel back into themselves. I look down at our gardens and notice how little of my legs I can see now. Flowers, it seems, are not the only things that are growing.

We didn’t do anything to deserve the blooms that are consuming our yard and this idea constantly circles back into my thoughts. I wonder, are we anonymously giving back enough?

This morning, dew falls from the hostas like small tears, afraid to let go; unsure of their path. They will fall to the grass for a bigger purpose, though they do not know what that it is yet. Fear has a strong hold over us all. I want to tell them to loosen their hold, that there is something more ahead for them, that when they fall to the grass they give back to the earth. But they are just drops of dew and do not understand my words. I watch them slip from the mouth of the hosta, then walk into the house.

Inside our house it is chilled from opened windows last night. Though it is supposed to be summer, yesterday I snuck into our closet to refit our bed with winter’s blankets. I cringed as I preformed the task, annoyed at the orange blanket, that I hoped not to see for many months. This is supposed to be charming– the Midwest’s unexpected weather– but mostly, I just feel tired from it. I look forward to the sun that I remember from my youth and pray that this summer will be warmer than the last. The more that something is out of your control, the more we seem to crave it. I feel like the crying hostas covered in dew, unable to shake their wet skin dry. But I hold out hope that it’s all for a greater cause. Today, the sun will come out again. It is only a matter of time. This is a season of patience.