We determined that I should have a punch of fire for my yard, as well. We set to digging some up and, with her convincing gestures, Grandma began commanding Grandad to assist. Her voice was in the full stages of failure, but Italians don't need words if they have arms to flail and eyebrows to raise.
When Grandad backed too far down the embankment, toppled backwards, and skidded towards the fence, we both grabbed at our hearts and waived our spade-fisted hands in alarm. Fortunately, Grandad was fine. Once that fact was established, Grandma looked at me knowing eyes and a slight sigh. As if to say, "Oh, those dear, dear men. So complicated they make things, but we love them so."
She had a way of being so unintentionally funny. The best kind, if you ask me.
My firework flowers haven't bloomed since I re-planted them those couple summers ago. I thought maybe they weren't getting enough sun. But then, Jane brought me this sprig the other day, with pride all over her face. "Look what I found!" she declared.
Turns out, they just weren't ready to bloom until now. Perhaps they were getting rooted. Perhaps they needed a few seasons of establishment until they were secure enough to bloom freely. I find this realization extremely relatable.
Blooms come and blooms go. We enjoy them when they are here and await their return when they fade. Much like life. Much like joys. Much like memories. And somehow, it is all good.
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven ..."