Peonies

Not until June this year did the peonies pop. So much rain that we all grumbled, gritted our teeth and hoped--hoped for the sunshine and warmth a June usually brings us. In our changing neighborhood (two houses for sale--one next door, one across the street) I spotted the first peonies to squint at the sun. I doubt Jo had planted them, but I know she loved these growing on the south side of the house she'd lived in before the cancer took her. Now with Bob traveling and the house nearly empty, I decided to enjoy Jo's peonies, and felt no remorse walking over and snapping a few stems to slip into a vase for the table. But then I looked at them--really looked--and saw exquisite colors, delicate petals, alabaster glow. Jo's peonies were glorious, nothing like those I'd seen over the years. I studied them, enjoying the scent, their beauty, and realized the agony of a hesitant spring can be erased in a moment with such a creation before me. The melding of the yellow and pink, along with the delicate petals themselves, centered me. I'd found summer.

II