stumblingtoholiness

The air is filled with sunshine, with pockets of the lingering cold of a New Hampshire winter, so I drive with my windows up and quietly enjoy the sights of spring in a classic New England town.  Sleepy colonial houses are awakened by riots of forsythia.  Daffodils trumpet, and pansies and crocuses dance everywhere, adamant in their celebration of the new season, despite freezing temperatures and sleet every other day.  The sidewalks are filled with people, waiting for school to let out and greeting their neighbors, walking dogs, or exercising their restless legs after another winter.  

Simultaneously people and plant watching, ahead of me I see the tallest cherry tree in the town, perhaps one of the tallest in New England, in full bloom.  It is gorgeous, the belle of the ball, its pink blossoms cascading down in an otherwise unassuming yard.  Just past the tree on the sidewalk is a couple, stopped in their tracks with her beauty.  The woman, doubled over with age, is standing as straight as she can, leaning back, a camera in her outstretched arms, trying to capture a picture of the tree and smiling with a delightful grin that lets me know she shares my admiration.  Her husband looks on the flowers with appreciation but the small, content smile, the set of his head and the warmth of his face as he looks at the woman make it clear who he thinks the real blossom is.  

I drive on, wondering about the number of springs she has seen.  How many have they seen together?  I think there are some deep thoughts to be thought, to do with age, and rebirth, and seasons of plants and people and the hope that I’ll love the flowers just as much at her age, and be loved.  But mainly, I’m left with the thought that 

Some things never get old.  

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