Peonies
The garden always wakes up slowly.
Even now, with spring settling in, the soil still carries the memory of winter. My hands disappear into it as I pull back mulch darkened by rain and time. Damp earth beneath my fingernails. Sweat gathering slowly at my temples in the afternoon warmth. The quiet creak of branches overhead. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I notice water moving softly through the little runoff stream between the beds.
The peonies are coming in strong again this year, as they do.
Thick stems. Deep green foliage. Heavy buds just starting to swell.
I kneel beside them carefully, brushing soil away from the base with my thumb, checking moisture, checking spacing, checking for the small things most people never notice. Making sure the powdery mildew I treated last year hasn’t started creeping back along the lower leaves.
I remember standing here years ago trying to decide exactly where they would thrive best. The nursery had warned against too much sun this far south. Her mother agreed with them. But after weeks of studying the yard, watching where the light moved and where moisture settled after storms, I was certain this was where they would flourish.
Close enough to the pond to stay cool through summer, but far enough away to prevent drowning. Mounded just high enough to keep the roots from sitting in water after heavy rain. Full morning sunlight to encourage strong blooms. Leaves protected from scorching in the afternoon heat by the white oak overhead.
Too much shade would keep them safe, but they would never bloom the way they were meant to.
Balance.
So I dug the holes wide and deep. Worked compost into the soil with my hands. Loosened the roots carefully before lowering them into the ground.
I made sure they had room to spread. Room to breathe. I wanted them to become enormous. Not because I cared much about flowers myself.
Because she did.
And I loved her carefully.
Maybe that’s where we lost each other somewhere along the way. Maybe we stopped paying attention as carefully as we once had. Maybe, through everything, we both slowly forgot how to keep making room for the other to breathe.
And I keep thinking about seasons.
Last spring, these peonies spent months gathering light. Quietly storing energy beneath the surface where nobody could see it. Roots reaching deeper long before the blooms ever came.
Maybe we are too.
Maybe some kinds of love remain stored deep inside us, the way roots quietly hold energy beneath the surface long after the season ends.
Then winter comes.
Everything appears dead for a while. Bare branches exposed to cold air. Once lush gardens empty of color. Silence settling over everything you cared for with such tenderness. You stand there in the cold wondering if you failed somehow. Wondering if anything living still remains beneath the surface.
But beneath the frozen ground, roots continue their quiet work. Preparing. And one day, cautiously and almost apologetically, the first shoots push through the soil again. Timid. Uncertain. As if they’re afraid they arrived too early.
They didn’t. They were right on time.
The leaves unfurl first. Quietly. Slowly. Then the foliage thickens. Then the buds begin to form. And somewhere during all of it, the blooms begin to open. Slowly at first. Almost shyly. As if they still haven’t realized they deserve to take up this much space in the world. But eventually they do.
Open and unapologetic beneath the sunlight.
Beautiful.
The peonies are heavy now. Some of the blooms are so large the stems bow beneath their own weight. I slide my fingers beneath one flower head, lifting it gently from the dirt after the rain.
As gently as I’d lift her.
The breeze moves softly through the yard. Somewhere nearby, bees drift lazily between the flowers. The sunlight is beginning to turn gold now. A lilac butterfly settles against the damp garden soil, reminding me of happier times.
I lean back onto my heels and look out across the garden for a long moment, feeling the hollow in my chest more clearly than I did a minute ago.
I wonder how she’s doing.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open an app without really thinking about it. Her newest picture is the first thing I see.
A little cat curled in her lap. Sunlight catching the edges of her hair. That beautiful smile that can warm an entire home.
For a moment, I smile too.
Then a lone droplet splatters softly against the darkened screen before I slip the phone quietly back into my pocket.
I hope she’s happy.
She looks happy.