I sat in comfortable silence, just me and my dogs beside. No fire in the hearth, no music on the radio, just a quiet evening pause. It had been a long time and I had struggled in the interim to keep perspective.

I couldn’t shake the joy of wildflowers that spring. Bluebonnets, buttercups, Indian paintbrushes bloomed in abundance roadside, painting the world blue, pinkish white, and red-orange.  Texas dogwoods added their soft hues while honeysuckle vines slowly unfolded along fence and abandoned gate.

I remember rain falling that Easter, cool, crystalline drops.  I remember racing, laughing, for the patio and shelter; I remember cheap, plastic eggs coloring the yard like wildflowers.  Days like today, I can almost hear my grandmother’s soft, ready laughter and taste the slightly melted chocolate of a Hershey bar left too long in the heat.

The land bore scars like we all did: great gashes where a tornado fell century-old oaks, where a shed had once stood, and where a trailer had moved several yards east. I saw the blossoms more: of the dewberry vines creeping back, of daffodils left unattended for a handful of springs, and the light green of budding elms.  Clover grew thick near ditches and away from cattle’s reach while Bahia grass stretched across pastures.