Most of the year, the view from east our bedroom window is run-of-the-mill.
Our lawn.
The neighbor’s driveway.
The rise of a hill and woods in the distance.
But for a few days each spring, our view is a thing of beauty…
If a warm March doesn’t lure the magnolia buds to become vulnerable too early.
If a hard April frost doesn’t destroy the emerging blossoms.
If a wayward May frost doesn’t nip the delicate, fully opened flowers.
This cold spring held the magnolia tree captive until the end of April.
When the sun finally coax the timid blossoms into bright and glorious bloom.
When my mother was here, sleeping in our bedroom with the magnificent view.
When we slept upstairs, the lovely flowers out of our sight line.
“That magnolia tree is lovely,” she said.
“I like to lay in bed and look at it,” she said.
“It is so pretty,” she said.
The wind blew on the day she left.
The tree limbs waved in greeting as we moved into our room with the view.
The next morning I photographed the sight.
The morning after that a glittering, May frost covered the ground.
The magnificent view was gone for another year, maybe longer.
Except for in my mother’s world.
For her, the view is still unsullied.
For her, the tree still blooms bright and pink.
For her, the sun still streams through the east window.
In her memory, perfection remains.
May it always be.
