We have 3 Cherry Blossom trees in our rear yard that have to be at least 40 years old. In April, when they bloom, it creates an explosion of pink beauty that dominates the view from our rear window. There is something comforting about seeing my children play in their shade. I often think of Mrs. Hilpert, the previous owner of our home, and how much she must have loved those trees. We love them as well.
I have always loved the spring and everything about it; the tantalizingly close summer to come, the end of school, the shedding of winter coats, the beauty of returned foliage, and all the memories from my 41 prior springs, whether they involved riding my old 5-speed with the high handlebars or how my muse’s hair would shine in sunlight.
As I got older it meant emergence from hibernation of the winter market to the buzzing activity of buyers and sellers repositioning for the new school year, arranging for the kids summer activities, and other more grown up but equally urgent matters. Regardless, I still get that wonderful feeling in my gut, one of hope, anticipation, and fun. It’s like I earned a reward.
Sometimes I still feel like I should pinch myself when I look out my window.