Peonies, long distance

I don’t know why I plant peonies; I am rarely there to see them bloom. Their firm buds wait for me to leave before they explode into hundreds of tender pink layers, their heads drooping like tipsy ladies at a lawn party. Sometimes, I call my neighbors long-distance and ask them to describe this year’s bounty. I find comfort in knowing someone is there to appreciate their achievement.

The second week in June, when the peonies bloom in Sullivan County, usually finds me in California with my brother’s children and his widow. Since his death, more than a decade ago this month, I am their last link to our side of the family. It is the time I most want to be with them, in their suburban home in Southern California, picking oranges from the backyard.

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The golden light of hope

This is just the sort of day, this nearly perfect final day of spring, when the phone might ring. I’d answer it to find my youngest sister, born in May, on the other end, calling to see if I could come out and play in the woods with our dogs, go for a river float in our kayaks or hop on a horse for the afternoon.

And though I cherish this thought, it won’t be the case today. Amy was thrown from a horse nearly three weeks ago. She sustained multiple fractures of her skull, facial bones and neck. Within a matter of seconds, the course of her life was changed. It came to a halt as her body was sent, head first, into a collision with metal and cement.

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