This morning, I sit still and quiet in my favorite writing chair, watching the early light fill up the room.
My eyes flit back, over and over, to a jar of feather-soft blue hydrangeas on the end table, the sun catching in petals. Every time I look at them, the sight pulls me back nine years, to my last summer as an unmarried woman.
Back then I dreamed of a reception with pitchers of fluffy blue mopheads on every table — a perfect match to my bridesmaids’ long gowns.
My mother bought me a little hydrangea that year. She planted it in her yard, babied and fertilized it, hoping it would contribute a few blossoms to my bouquet.
In the end, my florist convinced me that the August heat would be too much for water-loving hydrangeas, but my mother kept caring for that little bush — she called it my “wedding hydrangea” for years — and when T and I finally moved from our townhouse to the little cottage here in the city, she drove from six hours away with the roots wrapped in wet burlap.
Now it grows lush and green in our shady side yard.
This is the first year that my wedding hydrangea has leafed out heavy with blooms, its stems sagging under the weight. There are so many blossoms that I don’t feel stingy about cutting them anymore, and so here they sit on my end table in morning light, speaking …
Reminding me that sometimes, fragile and beautiful things take time to find their place — to know their home.