But when I make the turn onto the dirt road, my focus shifts. I scan the yard and the bushes for the first sight of my favorite tri-colored mutt with the over-sized, pointy ears.
He hears my car coming from a hundred yards away, stands at attention, and runs to the edge of the yard. As I near the house, he runs through the yard, parallel with my car. I pull into the drive and he starts jumping up and down and howling. Sometimes, he takes off and returns in a flash with a favorite ball.
He is so incredibly excited to see me. I have no idea why, but I can't help but smile. And I swear he is smiling, too. All that has preceded that moment dissipates as I rub his head and wrestle the ball out of his mouth. It's one of the best kinds of therapy.
And then I see this, and my cathartic high levels out.
No, it's not the wilting hostas or the unsightly white tube thing. It's those tulips; one of the few flowers that have bloomed as a result of those who lived in this home previously. I have never seen tulips that color. And I have decided that I don't like it. They are so dark purple that they look black, and frankly, it makes me sad. I am enthralled by the natural array of colors that flowers produce. But black? Really?
As much as they don't suit my fancy, I'm having trouble with the idea of pulling them out. It seems like an unwritten rule that you don't pull out the flowers that someone else lovingly sowed. Perhaps, the planter searched high and low for black tulips seeds. Upon finding them, she was elated and looked forward to seeing them bloom every spring.
Or maybe not. Maybe it simply does not matter.
Either way, that's my current dilemma.
No comments:
Post a Comment