Blue Hydrangeas

The summer brought blue hydrangeas.

I had broken the soil last fall. In the warm glow of autumn, I shattered the earth. With each shovelful, I willfully dug the hole, shuddering as I remembered another.

I picked up the plant, young and tender, setting it down in its earthen cradle.

Beneath its roots I laid a lifetime of dreams: first laugh, first word, first steps. I tucked them deep in the dirt and willed them to make something grow where she never would. I swaddled dreams in warm soil, safe, secure, unseen.

In the nights that should have been filled with feeding and rocking, I watered the soil with my tears. I sang the sweet lullabies meant for another. I kissed the tender leaves good night.

The winter came suddenly, as suddenly as my own. Unexpected, I woke to find all the world draped in white. I watched, aching, as the leaves fell, the plant laid bare and naked. Lifeless in its cold grave, frozen in time.

Through the long, sleepless nights, I prayed there was still life, somehow, beneath the frosty blanket of snow. I dared to dream that perhaps—just perhaps—winter was not the end of the story.

In the darkest hours, there were shadows. Shadows of all that could have been. Of cries that split the silent nights. Of laughter carried on spring breezes. Of footprints in the fresh garden soil. But they were merely shadows.

The darkness of winter had vanquished them all.

And then slowly, gently, the season turned. The sun wrapped its comforting arms around the frozen earth. Snow fell like teardrops from the barren branches. The birds whispered quietly of hope.

I watched for life, as though spring alone could restore all that had been lost. The tender, tiny leaves promised that winter had not won. There was still life.

With bated breath, the shadows grew brighter. My thoughts were filled with the promise of laughter, of coos, of first steps. Could it have been nothing more than a nightmare?

Each day, I waited. Waited for the blossoms that heralded life, as though the billowy soft petals could bring back all I had lost. If only they would come.

All through the spring I watered my dreams.

Then, one day, tiny buds. The seeds of life, pregnant with promise. Each day I tended them, watered them, nurtured them. Until at last they were unfurled, blue as the heavens above. Now. Now all would be right.  

I sat in the garden, surrounded by the flowers I had willed to life. There was silence. There were no footprints. There was no laughter. Some things even blossoms cannot restore.

The summer brought only blue hydrangeas.